Time after Time
by Amelia Bianca Black
Summary: AU set after "There's No Place Like Home 2." A puzzling case makes Jordan and Woody work together again. Let the blame game begin!
1. Alone

As always, I'll start with a...

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Crossing Jordan_.

**Note: **This one wasn't planned. It's funny, really - I've got two stories in the works (with me, that means that I've got the outlines :)), but when I started writing, this appeared on the screen. :)) So, just for the record, the other two stories are _Ordinary People _(set between _Crash _and _The Flowers of Evil_) and _Out of Sync _(an AU starting from the first scene of _Thin Ice_).

As always, I hope you'll enjoy and feel free to leave a review on your way out. :)

* * *

Oh, had she put a dollar aside each time she got yet another impolite comment about being a sadist because of cutting dead people for a living, by now she would have been – well, maybe not exactly rich – but able to afford a nice trip to Hawaii or the Bahamas, maybe even the Caribbean. Perhaps lying on the soft sand under a verdant palm tree, in scorching heat and with a strong Bahama Mama in her sun-tanned hand, she would be able to forget everything, to turn over a new leaf, to return to Boston cheerful, if not happy, and strong, stronger than ever. Yesterday she had been considering that option – the possibility of going to some place far, far away, to some place where no pitiful looks would be sent her way, where the sun was shining, the air was warm and the sea blue. She had been considering that option in all seriousness. Of course, to do that she would have to clear her bank account and beg Garret for even more overtime after the vacation. She had been on the very verge of doing so. Then she had spotted the catch – in all those heavenly places, the ocean was so deep you could get lost in it, it was mesmerizing, sometimes its buried rage would come to the surface and it would turn dark and threatening, sometimes it would be warm and welcoming, it would be blue, crystalline blue. The ocean was like his eyes. The Charles was like his eyes. The sky was like his eyes. She had dismissed the idea of a vacation near the ocean. She had stopped jogging near the river. She had begun looking only at the sidewalk when walking a street. She was feeling like a pathetic wuss. No, she knew she was a pathetic wuss. She knew she had to snap out of it, but it was difficult. It was so freakin' difficult. For, whenever she would close her eyes, she would see his. She would feel his hands on her upper arms. She would hear his voice.

"I don't want to push you away any more, Jordan."

That sentence was on a continuous loop in her head. "I don't need help. Especially not from you." and "Screw your pity and get out." and "You whisper something in my ear and it's supposed to change everything? Well, it doesn't." would interfere occasionally.

She knew she had to stop thinking about him. He didn't want her any more. He didn't need her any more. He didn't love her any more. If he ever had. Love can't just disappear, can it? She sort of felt like Scarlett O'Hara. She had told him she loved him (okay, maybe not in those words, but still) and his reaction was "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." or – in his exact words – "Screw your pity." and all that jazz.

She knew she had to throw him out of her head. She needed to rip him out from her mind and her heart. Of course, it was easier said than done. She didn't know how to do that. Sometimes she suspected she didn't really want to, either. She still hoped. He loved her. He did. She knew it. One of these days, he would come and ask her to forgive him. And she would ask him to forgive her.

"And then what?" she mocked herself. "Then you'll live happily ever after. Yeah, right." She snorted.

She was a fool. He didn't love her. He obviously was able to live without her. She was able to live without him. She was. She really was. But these things take time. Turning Scarlett's (in)famous thought inside out, she said out loud, "I won't think about him tomorrow." Then her eyes fluttered shut and she started warming her frozen heart on the remnants of the fire his love for her had been. As the ice melted, she started to bleed again. Oh God, why did it have to hurt so much? Why had she had to be such an idiot? She should have done something earlier.

As the film continued to unwind on her eyelids, her shaky hand reached for the remote. She turned on her stereo, ready for one more round of songs that don't exactly bring a smile upon your face.

"They were wrong," she mumbled, "I'm actually a masochist."

_I hear the ticking of the clock._

_I'm lying here, the room's pitch dark._

_I wonder where you are tonight,_

_No answer on the telephone._

_And the night goes by so very slow,_

_I hope that it won't end though..._

Usually too schmaltzy for her. But not tonight. If tomorrow wouldn't bring any relief, she would like this night to last forever. She was safe here, even happy in some wicked way, with all those memories. Tomorrow, he could hurt her again. He could use her, lie to her, just like he had about Riggs. Tomorrow, she could see this new him, see this new Woody she didn't like. Now, that was a lie. She liked… She loved him no matter what. But she was afraid of him, of what he could do to himself and to her. He had changed so much. He was more of a stranger to her now than when he had first come from Wisconsin. He was violent. He was desperately seeking revenge. He was insincere. He hadn't called her for over two months. Damn him, if he didn't want her, she didn't want him, either.

Nevertheless, she couldn't hold tears back as Sade was singing about her life, about what her life had become.

_You think I'd leave your side, baby,_

_You know me better than that._

_You think I'd leave you down when you're down on your knees._

_I wouldn't do that._

_I can tell you right when you want to hear…_

_And if you could see into me…_

_When you're cold,_

_I'll be there, hold you tight to me._

Oh yes, she would, she would do that. She would always be by his side. She would help him get through it all. If only he would let her. She would put up with his tantrums if only he would let her in, confide in her; she'd know then that everything would eventually be alright. They would make it together.

_When you're on the outside, baby, and you can't get in,_

_I will show you you're so much better than you know._

_When you're lost and you're alone and you can't get back again,_

_I will find you, darling, and I will bring you home._

He had done that for her so many times. Why wouldn't he let her do that for him now? She couldn't take it any more. This entire situation was driving her insane.

"He has made his decision," she told herself for the umpteenth time. "He has moved on and I should do the same," she concluded as she reached for the remote again.

At the very same moment, her cell phone rang.

* * *

Damn her. He couldn't even drink his whiskey without thinking about her. It wasn't only because of her eyes, her enchanting eyes. He thought he knew their every expression. They could so easily turn from playfulness to affection and from affection to anger and then back again. He knew when she was thoughtful. He knew when she was plotting yet another of her hare-brained schemes. He knew when she was enraged by injustice. He remembered her look at the hospital. He had seen that one before – not often, though – and he had dared to think it was more than affection. He had dared to think it was love. But now he knew better. She had never loved him. She had waited for him to be unconscious on a gurney to whisper, stammer actually, a simple: "You are so much to me. I need you to hold me a little tighter." She had pitied him, so she said a few nice words. Of course, she would have never said: "I love you." Because she didn't.

A little nagging voice in the back of his head was reminding him about the look in her eyes when he had been begging her to keep her mouth shut about his bloody fingerprint. If that hadn't been love… But, no, it couldn't have been. She had used him so many times in the past. Whenever she had needed an accessory to her wild goose chases, he was there to follow her like a lost puppy. Well, those days were over.

To escape his tormenting thoughts and her haunting eyes, he turned the stereo on.

_Hey, I never met a girl I could miss._

_Yeah, I never met a girl I could kiss._

_Girls like you are very hard to find._

_When I kiss you,_

_I kiss your lovely lips._

_When I hold you,_

_You got one hand I want to hold._

He had never hated _The_ _Kinks_ so much. Not bothering with the remote, he unplugged the system.

He didn't love her. Maybe there was some residual lust, but that was all. He couldn't love her. She had ruined his life. He had spent the last three years chasing her and she had enjoyed every moment of it. Now it was his turn to enjoy. To enjoy his life without her and her obsessions. And if she had fallen in love with him somewhere along the road, even better. That could provide him with some more enjoyment. It was his turn to torture her.

"God, that thought is just monstrous," it occurred to him, but he shook the thought off, returning to his glass. "Just her just deserts." He shrugged.

That's when his cell made a shrill sound. Frowning because he had to quit nursing his whiskey, he flipped it open.

"This is Hoyt," he practically growled.

* * *

She pulled over in front of a fancy apartment building near Exeter Towers. Wearily, she dragged herself to the third floor. Apparently, the elevators weren't working. Just as she was about to duck under the police tape in front of number 351, she stopped in her tracks. Panic filled her features. How was she supposed to forget about him if they had to work on the same case and if he looked smoking hot like this? A 'damn' escaped her lips.

At the other end of the room, he spotted her as soon as she had approached the tape. How the hell was he supposed to… do whatever he had to or thought he had to when she was so freakin' more-than-smoking hot?

"Damn," he muttered and he knew from the look in her eyes that she was thinking exactly the same.


	2. Kiss or Kill

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Crossing Jordan_. And I do not own the songs "used" in the previous chapter - _Alone _by _Heart_, _By Your Side _by Sade and _Never Met a Girl like You _by _The Kinks_.

**Note: **Thanks to everybody who's reading, but especially to my dear reviewers, i.e. **BugFan4Ever**, **lbcjfan **and **Mexwojo**. :))

P.S. I hope you all had a great Halloween. :D

* * *

"Just be civil," she told herself. "Professional and civil. A bit cold, too, maybe."

As always, it was easier said than done. She rubbed her palms against her hiphugging black jeans to remove the prickling patches of cold sweat. Her knees were jelly, but that wasn't the only reason why she couldn't move – it felt as if her feet were in cement. It was like she was in elementary school all over again – she was happy to be near him, but she would still rather be somewhere else because she was afraid. To tell the truth, she was frightened. She knew from the look he'd given her when she entered that nothing good was to be expected. He was pissed off. And no matter what the reason for his bad mood was, he was going to take it all out on her.

"Not if I can help it." She suddenly snapped out of that strange state of mind. Nobody was going to abuse Jordan Cavanaugh. She wouldn't let him mistreat her no matter how much she had… she loved him.

Taking a deep breath and straightening to her full height, she approached him quickly and decisively. Then, forcing herself to look him in the eye, she nodded shortly and asked him, satisfied with her tone, professional and non-faltering:

"What do we have?"

Why the hell did she have to walk like… that? Parading in that crimson blouse with an outrageous cleavage… He unconsciously shook his head. "The morgue really is in a desperate need for a new dress code," he thought, unable to look up from the abovementioned cleavage. "And nobody should be allowed to look so abso-fuckin'-lutely fantastic at 2 am." He groaned inwardly, absorbing her entire appearance – from the fluffy messy bun to the black high heels. Before he knew it, his hand flew to his cheek. Now he was really pissed off. "A) I don't give a crap whether I'm shaved or not. B) I especially don't give a crap whether I'm shaved or not just because I've run into Jordan Cavanaugh," he thought furiously, fighting the urge to slap himself, "C) I wouldn't give a rat's ass even if Jordan Cavanaugh walked into this room completely naked." His blood boiling with anger, but also – and mostly – with a few ideas his previous thought had given him, he hissed, "Fill her in, Blake," to the uniform beside him. That was his only answer to her question before he stormed off to the hallway.

For a couple of seconds, she just gaped at him – at his back, to be precise. And she wasn't alone – Officer Blake was doing exactly the same. Homicide detectives weren't usually treating medical examiners like that. Then again, it seemed that these two didn't have the usual detective-coroner relationship. He'd heard a thing or two about them. "A lovers' quarrel," he concluded wisely just as Jordan muttered: "Fine." under her breath and turned to him for information.

"Jacob Reilly," Blake started as she knelt beside the body. "Apparently, he was a hot shot lawyer. Obviously male, Caucasian; forty-three years old…" He paused a little, pretty much disgusted by the ME's actions. She was currently sticking a long, thin thingy into the victim's abdomen. When she finished with that, i.e. the F-tech temp probe, she gave him a questioning look, so he continued: "This is his apartment. We got the call around one. It was some hysterical lady, the dispatch could barely understand what she was saying. We found him like this."

Jordan nodded solemnly, all her attention turned to Mr. Reilly again. The poor guy's legs were bound with a piece of thick, rough rope and his hands were in flexicuffs – a kind of handcuffs, the plastic ones that police officers usually use during mass arrests. He was lying on his back and several stab wounds were visible on his upper abdomen. She spotted a wedding band on his finger, which made her shudder. He had a family, maybe kids, certainly a wife that loved him…

"So, what you've got for me?" a rudely impatient voice startled her. Woody was back, obviously.

For a second she was deciding between killing him for being such a jerk and kissing him for being so sexy in that pale blue shirt, without an appalling tie or a boring jacket this time. However, in the end, she opted for neither.

"Rigor hasn't started yet and his liver temperature is about 34.8 degrees Celsius," she told him, not taking her eyes from the victim even for a moment. If he could be a bitch, she could be one, too. "I'd say he's been dead for two or three hours. Multiple stab wounds. I'll know more when I transfer him to the morgue," she said, getting up.

She finally lifted her gaze again, only to meet his eyes, which quickly fell onto the vic as soon as she looked at him. She choked back a mirthless laugh.

"I take it back, this is nothing like elementary school. This is more like kindergarten," she mused, bending to pick up her bag as she was ready to go.

That was the last straw. He didn't know what to do first – punch Officer Blake for staring at her… hm… gluteal muscles, or take her somewhere, anywhere, and make love to her.

"No, not to make love, to have sex," he reminded himself. "And I'm not _that_ hard up that I…"

(Un)fortunately, the exhausted employees of the nineteenth precinct didn't have the pleasure of witnessing the detective's outburst of passion because a security guard showed up at the door.

"I think you'd better see this, Detective," the young man said, clearly self-satisfied.

* * *

"This" was a beautiful redhead in her late thirties, who was wringing her hands and occasionally trying to stop their shaking. She was sitting on the stairs between the second and the third floor while a big bald man with "Avery Elevators" written over the back of his working suit was eyeing her.

"Voltage dip, Mr. Henley over there says," the voice of the guard couldn't be smugger. He was explaining his "findings" to Woody as they, followed by Jordan, were approaching the woman and her keeper. "We found her inside when he fixed the elevator."

"So, he is really dead?" the woman spoke in a low, shaky voice, addressing the newcomers.

"If "he" is Jacob Reilly, then yes, he is." Woody's sensitivity was really incredible. He didn't even wince when she started sobbing uncontrollably after hearing his words. All he did was asking her coolly: "And who are you?"

Casting him an equally outraged and disappointed look, Jordan set by the woman and started to rub her back reassuringly. For some time, they were just sitting like that – the redhead weeping and the brunette trying to comfort her. During that (short) time, a certain detective was seething with anger.

"Jordan Cavanaugh, the famous do-gooder, always there to save the day…," and similar incoherent thoughts were crossing his mind. He could have wrung her neck at that moment. Just as he was going to repeat his question to the Jane Doe, both she and the guard spoke, almost simultaneously.

"I haven't been here long, but now that I think…," he started.

"He's dead. He's dead," she said matter-of-factly.

"… about it, I believe that she is Mr. Reilly's wife."

"He's dead," she repeated one more time. Then she turned to Jordan, hugging her. "How do I live without him?"

Woody was thrilled. He had his suspect. After all, in the vast majority of cases, the partner was the murderer. He cast a glance at the women. Mrs. Reilly's sobs were becoming hysterical and Jordan was holding her tight.

"How do I live without him?" the dead man's wife asked again and he saw Jordan's eyes close and a single tear roll down her cheek. In a fraction of a moment, his heart wrenched. Then he repeated his mantra:

"She doesn't mean anything to me."


	3. It's All Over Now, Baby Blue

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Crossing Jordan_. (Duh!)

**Note: **This one is a bit longer, but I didn't want to cut it in half (especially 'cos I liked the chapter title :)).

As always, thanks to the reviewers - **Mexwojo**, **BugFan4Ever**, **lbcjfan **and **Pandorea**. You're really great, guys! :) And thanks to all other readers, too. :)

* * *

"But I… I…" Meghan Reilly stammered, waving her hands around, trying to point out that she couldn't possibly be carrying the murder weapon on her as she was wearing a pair of dark blue skinny jeans and a close-fitting grass green T-shirt.

Nevertheless, Woody wasn't convinced. "Your bag," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm guessing you had a bag with you. So, where is it now?"

"I-I don't know." Mrs. Reilly seemed confused. "I… If it's not in the elevator, I-"

Since patience wasn't exactly his middle name, and especially not since he'd gotten shot, the detective interrupted her, sighing overly dramatically. He wasn't buying all that "grieving widow" performance of hers. She was probably already planning what to do with his money.

"Well, try to remember," he told her. "Or we could finish this conversation down at the precinct."

That was too much for Jordan. What the hell was he thinking he was doing? The woman had barely stopped sobbing and he was accusing her of stabbing her husband to death and stashing the knife? Who the hell had given him the right to trample on her heart?

That more rational part of her was telling her that there indeed was a possibility that the woman in front of her was a murderer. The more emotional one felt that the sorrow in the woman's eyes and voice was real and that she could never have killed her husband. Whichever was true, Jordan knew one thing: there was no need for Woody to act like that. He could at least be civil.

"Woody," she uttered before realizing that she probably should call him Detective Hoyt now when they were all official and professional. "That's enough," her voice was pretty controlled, but a note of agitation could be heard.

He hadn't been paying any attention to her during his little exchange with Mrs. Reilly. In fact, he had almost forgotten that she was there. Now he was reminded of her presence and wasn't too glad about it.

"Last time I checked, you were a medical examiner," he told her, struggling to keep his voice low.

"Last time I checked, you were a human being," she equaled, disregarding his outraged expression.

Although Mr. Henley from "Avery Elevators" was very interested in seeing the outcome, he never had the opportunity because Mrs. Reilly managed to remember what had happened with her bag.

"Detective," she addressed Woody almost timidly, "I must have left it in the apartment."

* * *

As four of them – Woody, Jordan, Mrs. Reilly and the guard (Mr. Henley had been unceremoniously dismissed despite his pleading looks) – climbed the stairs and then walked the hallway to number 351, the widow was explaining what she thought had happened.

"I saw him as soon as I entered." She was doing her best to prevent her voice from shaking. "He was there… in the middle of the living room… in a pool of blood." She choked the tears back. "I-I couldn't move. Then I grabbed the phone and dialed 911. I think I was screaming… Don't know if they could understand what I was saying…I felt like I was suffocating. I badly needed fresh air, so I-"

"Took the elevator?" Woody interrupted her. Insensitivity was becoming his middle name. "I don't think so."

By that time, they were in Mr. Reilly's apartment and, with latex gloves on his hands, the detective was searching the living room for Meghan's Louis Vuitton.

Meeting his gaze, she replied, mustering all the courage she could, "You are going to find about it eventually, so you may as well hear it from me." She paused. "Jacob had a restraining order against me."

Jordan's jaw dropped. She was so upset that she didn't even notice the victorious glance Woody threw her way.

* * *

"He only got it two days ago," the woman continued her explanation. "He was strange lately, you see. He wasn't himself. I-we… we have been… were separated for five months now. He was constantly refusing to talk to me, to tell me what was wrong." She stifled a tear. "He didn't even want to see me. Only when I would bring the kids here to spend the weekend with him." Tears were rolling down her face now. "He kept telling me that it was over, that I should stop bothering him… I-I just wanted to know why." She buried her face in her hands. "I just wanted him back," she sobbed out through her fingers.

Jordan approached her and hugged her again. Maybe the story altogether wasn't too convincing, but she believed her. She knew the feeling too well.

Woody, however, didn't share her opinion. "So you killed him," he stated. "If you could-"

"No!" Mrs. Reilly almost screamed through the tears. "It was nothing like that, I…"

"Hm." The detective wasn't convinced at all, but didn't bother to retort as his attention had been drawn to a small black bag trapped between the table on which the telephone was and the wall. "Let's see what we've got here."

From the bag, he pulled out nothing more than a pair of sunglasses, a cell phone, a pack of chewing gums, a bunch of keys and a used Kleenex. The knife, which he had so eagerly been trying to find, wasn't there. He sighed inwardly.

"Just because we haven't found anything incriminating in your bag, that doesn't mean you're not our prime suspect any more," he told Mrs. Reilly pretty menacingly, frustrated. "There is no sign of forced entry and I'd say you still had a key." When she didn't protest, he went on. "The French doors are closed, too, as well as all the windows…" he continued suggestively. "Stay in town," he added shortly before turning to the guard. "I'm gonna need the surveillance tapes."

"Certainly." The young man was glowing with pride. Had you asked him what he was so proud of, he wouldn't have known the answer.

* * *

A few hours later, Jordan was examining Mr. Reilly's body in Autopsy Four. Nigel was there, too, watching the autopsy closely, not having anywhere else to be.

"What's with these?" he asked her enthusiastically, drawing her attention to the man's hands.

"Small abrasions on the fingers." Jordan wasn't really interested. She had already seen them. "Probably a result of his attempts to untie the rope. Judging from the wounds, it took him some half an hour to bleed to death."

"You don't think the wife did it, luv?" he asked tactfully. Through the office grapevine, he had heard that there was, to put it gently, some disagreement between Jordan and a certain blue-eyed detective.

"Look at these wounds again, Nige," she told him instead of an answer. "The angles just aren't right. He was six feet tall. Judging by the wounds, he was stabbed by somebody at least two inches taller than him."

Nigel nodded. "Somebody is not going to be pleased."

She only shot him a sharp look which was, as clearly as words would have been, saying, "I couldn't care less."

* * *

It was already 5 pm. Jordan had just returned from court, and was trying to finish her autopsy report on Jacob Reilly. She wanted to fax it to Woody as soon as possible, so that he would stop harassing poor Meghan. She had lowered the Venetian blinds, enjoying the peace and quiet of her office. Usually she was able to concentrate despite all the buzz of the morgue, but that was so not the day. Firstly, she hated the mere memory of the case because of which she had been in court. Then, the fact that she was wearing that uncomfortable skirt wasn't helpful at all. She had to endure it only a bit longer, though, as the report was almost done.

She worked for some more time. Then she stretched lazily, ready to write her name on the line and thus conclude the report. An affectionate voice startled her a little.

"Go home and get some sleep, luv." Nigel grinned from the doorstep. The door had been left ajar, so that she wouldn't have to get up each time somebody knocked. Garret still hadn't gotten rid of Slocum's security measures, which meant that anybody who wanted to enter an office had to know the code for that specific room.

She smiled back. "I will, Nige." She signed the report and looked back at him. "Done!"

"Nigel," another voice made her heart skip a beat. She was so not ready for another round of bickering. "Good I've found you. Our lab is too busy." Woody was standing in front of her office, talking to the criminologist and ignoring her completely. "And sloppy," he added quickly. "I was wondering if you could take a look at these tapes."

"Sure, mate," Nigel retorted. "But I think you should first see the autopsy report. Jordan had just finished it." With that, he moved out of the doorway, making a passage for Woody. It was an awkward situation. Woody didn't want to come in, and Jordan didn't want him to, either. Nigel seemed oblivious of that.

Finally, Jordan got up from her chair and walked to the front of her desk. Holding the report, she extended her arm. "Here it is. I think that you will have to look for another suspect," she addressed the detective.

As he frowned and took a few steps towards the report, Nigel mumbled something like: "I'll leave you two to talk it over." and hurried out of the room, closing the door behind him. It was high time these two smoothed out whatever there was to smooth out.

Jordan groaned inwardly when she heard the door lock automatically. She didn't like the idea of being alone with Woody in such a small place, even if she really could leave whenever she wanted.

He spoke first. "What do you mean by that? Why would I have to find another suspect?"

"Because Jacob Reilly was killed by somebody who is tall at least six foot two," she replied calmly. "And his wife is barely five foot five."

"So what?" He almost snorted. "She could have been wearing high heels."

"No," she shook her head, "you know as well as I do that she was wearing sneakers. Besides, why would a strong, healthy man allow a woman to cuff-"

"What?" he interrupted. "Don't tell me you've never played with those?" He had no intention of holding back his snide remarks.

"To cuff," she resumed, ignoring him, "and stab him. It just doesn't make any sense and you know it." Restraining herself was getting more difficult by the second. "So if you would just stop being such-"

"Just fax me the report," he cut her off, turning to leave.

"Fine," she practically yelled at his back, "just go away." Bitterness was more than audible in her voice. Restraining herself had become a mission impossible. "That's all you know, anyway."

His apparent calmness was driving her insane. That was one of Max's favorite tricks when she had been a teenager – he'd just ignore her outbursts, fully aware that that would enrage her even more if possible. She simply hated that feeling – the feeling of being a complete idiot, an irrational lunatic screaming her head off while the other party was just looking at her, mildly amused. Nevertheless, her current sparring - so to say - partner was obviously not as cold-blooded as her dad. Woody's hand slipped off the doorknob and he turned on his heel to face her. There was so much anger in his features that her heart stopped for a moment.

"What do you want?" he hissed.

Great, that was another of Max's techniques – keeping his voice as low as possible, so that she seemed even more hysterical. Oh God, were all men cast in the same mold? Or, was that psychological mumbo-jumbo true? Did a girl always have to fall for somebody who resembled her dad? He was even a police officer… no, a homicide detective, for crying out loud!

Thoughts like these sprinted through Jordan's mind, but she didn't voice any of them. When she did speak, her tone was much lower than a minute before, but still extremely irritated.

"I want you to listen to the evidence!" She waved him her autopsy report.

"No, I mean, what do you want?" He was now in front of her, sparks of anger flying from his eyes. When she remained silent, he repeated, his face only a few inches from hers, "What do you want, Jordan?"

Had she been able to speak, she would have told him she wanted him out of her office and out of her life, forever. She would have told him she wanted to turn time back so that she would never meet him. But she wasn't, not with hot tears burning her eyes, so she just turned her head away from him, letting her curls hide her face like drapes. How could he treat her like that? At one point they had been the best of friends, and now they were the worst of enemies. It was funny how everything changed in a blink, in less than a blink.

While she was contemplating that, the man in front of her wasn't bothering with philosophical or any other questions. She was standing there, hotter than hell, and his body was telling him what to do. On the other hand, his mind was telling him what to do, as well. Naturally, he shut the mind off.

"Is this what you want?" His voice was a husky whisper.

He cupped her chin with his right hand, not gently at all. With his other hand, he pinned her to him. He pressed his lips into hers so hard that it was a painful experience for both. He was deliberately forceful, wanting to make her suffer, making her open her mouth for him, making her do what he wanted for once. Her arms were trapped between their bodies. Her hands, which were still clutching the report, were on his chest and she was trying to push him away. These attempts remained futile, however, as he was much stronger than her and currently had no qualms about using that fact to his advantage. Her mind's resistance to her body was equally fruitless, and her lips soon started responding to his.

Those were not gentle kisses, full of love and tenderness. They were kisses of passion, of need. Too much time and too many opportunities had been wasted. Too much water had been under the proverbial bridge. Neither of them sincerely believed that there was a chance for them as a couple somewhere along the road. But there was still the attraction – raw, physical, tormenting. There was the lust for the unknown, for what they hadn't had although they wanted it for so long. That was the moment for resolving all that pent-up sexual tension, for satisfying the need, satiating the hunger. Later, without sweet nothings, even without a simple "goodbye," they would move on, separate ways. They both knew it. Neither of them cared. They were too old, or better said too cynical, to believe in happily ever after. What was important was only there and then.

As she released him from their lip-lock and started working on his belt, he let his lips explore every inch of the bare skin above the v-neck of her blouse. At the same time, he lifted her skirt a little and was taking care of her thigh-highs. He was rolling them down at just the right pace – not too fast and not too slow. All the while, his thumbs were rubbing small circles into her inner thighs. Still fumbling over his pants, she let out a shallow moan. His lips, which had found their way back to hers via her neck, where they had left a pleasantly moist trail, caught it.

That was more than enough foreplay for both of them, so he helped her onto her desk. Feeling the cold and hard desktop beneath her was almost like having a cold shower. She had been reminded where they were and why they weren't in her big, soft bed, where oh-so-many other things for the pleasure of them both could be done, over and over again. Because he didn't love her. That's why they weren't there. Nevertheless, she didn't care at the moment. She didn't want him to stop. His fingers under her blouse, waging a war with her overpaid lavender bra, simply felt so good. But, just as his hands moved downwards again and his mouth once more got busy with her cleavage, her eyes fell onto the couch on the other side of the office.

"Not even the couch, but the desk!" something inside her suddenly screamed as she fidgeted on the wooden desktop, which was everything but comfortable. "His pleasure is all he cares about. You love him and you're gonna be just an item on his "10 Most Exciting Places You've Ever Had a Shag" list at Nigel's next truth or dare party. Is that what you want? Is that what you want?!"

Her body was telling her mind to shut up as she inhaled sharply, waves of pleasure spreading through her while he ran his hand up her thigh again, singeing her skin. Her legs wrapped themselves around him. Only a fraction of a moment later, she untangled her fingers from his hair and pretty gently, but firmly, pushed him away. When she later thought about that, she never knew from where she'd gotten the strength. Using the moment of his surprise, she slid past him. When he instinctively reached for her, she looked him straight in the eye, her vision blurred by yet another disappointment in men and her body shivering with the unfulfilled longing.

"No, that… this isn't what I want," she said, taking another step backwards, her voice a bit louder than intended. She was talking to herself more than to him. "Not like this," she added quietly, turning around and heading to the window, straightening her skirt along the way.

He heard her words: "Not like this." As he was trying to process that, he saw her shoulders shake with the sobs she was trying to smother. Great, now she was crying! Just what he needed. He'd thought she wanted it, too. Why the hell was she weeping now? Women. Who could ever understand them? That hardened part of him was thinking along these lines. But Tin Man still had a heart somewhere, so he eventually was able to understand where she was coming from. He hadn't been as much as civil to her and then he had jumped at the first opportunity to get her laid. He had been going to use her as a mere means of his own satisfaction, using the fact that her body was still responding to his. Not even for a moment had he thought that she might have feelings, much less that he could hurt them. And, if he was going to be honest with himself, he probably wouldn't have minded hurting them. Actually, he might have enjoyed it. What on earth had he become?

"Jordan…" He was awkwardly standing in the middle of the office, not knowing what to do. He knew what he wanted, though. He wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her tears away, tell her that it had never been about sex, that he… well, that he… he… well, he cared about her. He couldn't do that, however.

Still staring through the window, but not seeing a thing, she just waved her hand, urging him to go away. But he felt he couldn't go, not yet. He quickly took care of his pants and belt, and then tried again.

"Jordan," his voice was dripping with self-reproach, an emotion he hadn't felt for a long time. "I'm sorry; I don't know what got into me… I-"

"Please, just leave." was all she said. She didn't feel capable of talking. Moreover, she couldn't see the need for it. Everything had been said. Or, better said, shown. What he had wanted was a quick, meaningless fuck. What she had wanted was snuggling on a cold night, breakfast in bed, pillow talk. What she wanted now was not to see him. Ever again. It really wasn't safe to love anybody.

Reckoning that all he could achieve by an attempt to comfort her would be a fight, he decided to obey her. A few moments later, she heard a soft click as the door closed behind him. She crumbled to the floor, with her back against the infamous desk, crying soundlessly.

* * *

**Yay, another note :) : **In case you were wondering why Jordan was wearing thigh-highs at work (because I get that question from my mom and some (and always the same, grr) friends all the time - not about Jordan, but about me :)) - you look much better in tight clothes if you're wearing them instead of the ordinary ones (and they're more comfortable; and here they served another purpose, i.e. they enabled me to write something that even remotely resembles a hot scene). Anyways, please pardon this part of the note as my usual rambling... :)

And I'll be spoilerish (hope the author won't kill me :) ): as great minds think alike :)), I've got a feeling you might soon be reading another take on Sex & the Office (which, in fact, should have been published before this one). :)


	4. Creep

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Crossing Jordan_. The song _Creep _belongs to _Radiohead_.

**Note: **So, this one is back from "hiatus." And I lied (though not intentionally) - I won't be posting all remaining chapters at once (I don't even have the next one written).

Thanks to **Mexwojo**, **lbcjfan **and **BugFan4Ever**! :)

* * *

Blissful numbness simply didn't want to claim her exhausted body, much less her troubled mind. It didn't matter whether she would close her eyes or stare into the darkness surrounding her – he was always there. She felt his touch; she felt him in her skin, in her blood. She felt humiliation in her core. He had been doing nothing but insult her, and after one – and forced – kiss she had been ready to have sex with him, and in her office, for crying out loud. All those years of their dance… For what? For a quickie on her desk? Or a night in her bed.

It had always been about sex. She should have known. After all, hadn't she been referring to their relationship as a "mating dance"? Why was sex all they had ever wanted from her? With Tom, with Myers, with Tyler, with others, there had always been one constant – great sex. With Tom, with Myers, even with Tyler, she had been left to cry. The same had happened with Woody, but with only a couple of breathtaking kisses in a Californian desert and fantastic foreplay in her office. She guessed that deep inside she had known the history would repeat itself. That had been the reason behind resisting so many of his puppy-dog looks, behind smothering the feelings that undoubtedly had been there, were still there.

What feelings? All that… All that was purely physical. There was no such a thing as love. Love wasn't just overrated. Love didn't exist. How did psychologists call that? Sublimation? Yeah, that was the word. Unready to admit that we were indeed not much more than animals, driven by instincts, we had made love up. What's love, anyway? Nothing really, only a big word. But what was this then? Why the only thing she wanted now was him, holding her tight, telling her that it had all been one big fat nightmare, that he would never leave. Why would a chaste kiss, a tender look, a warm embrace, a few whispered words suffice for her?

No, no, no, it was all physical, completely physical. Physical was good. Physical was safe. Physical was good. Physical was great. After all, hadn't she always wanted physical? She could try and blame everything on Tom, on Jay, on Tyler, on others, some of whose names she didn't even remember, on Woody. However, the truth was that physical had always been her conscious choice. She had never wanted love, whatever that was. Maybe she wasn't made to be loved. Maybe she wasn't made to love. Hell, she certainly wasn't made to love anybody. It ran in the family. She was made to have sex, lots of mind-blowing sex. Maybe she was a whore. She _had_ been sleeping with a married man… She was just like her mother – Max, Malden, that guy with a Yankees' cap, God knew who else… Her poor dad…

The mere thought of her father was so freaking painful. He had left her, too. There had to be something terribly wrong with her. Her own father had left her, for crying out loud. She knew she shouldn't be thinking in that way, somewhere deep down she was aware that that frame of mind was a warped one. But she simply couldn't help it. After all, who did love her? Her friends? They didn't know just how messed up she was. If they knew… Well, if they knew, they would abandon her – just like her dad… just like Woody.

Woody… They had blown all their chances. It was all over now... Woody… She closed her eyes and memories flooded her…_"I'm_ _willing_ _to_ _take_ _that_ _risk."_ Oh God, why now? Why did she have to remember that one now? He had just been playing her. He had. _"I'm_ _not._ _You've_ _got_ _to_ _let_ _me_ _go."_ Great. That sentence could be the leitmotif of the three and a half years of their one step forwards – two step backwards little game. She had been the one to always pull away. She had been the one to run to the hills each time she would think they were getting too close. She had never been the one to take risks. And look how well that had turned out! In the end, _he_ had told _her_ that _she_ had to let _him_ go. And it was her fault. As she'd told Lily, she had been sitting on the fence for too long and she pushed him away. Even if he _had_ wanted more than a cheap fuck, all that was left in him now was residual lust.

In the end, was it really important whose fault it was? Anyway you sliced it, she was suffering. And he would find somebody else tonight, somebody with whom he would finish what he had started with her in the morgue... She felt his body next to hers again, and she wanted nothing more but for that not to be a trick her mind was playing on her.

Jumping out of bed, she glanced at the clock. It was only ten thirty. There was still plenty of time for _her _to find somebody that night. In a frenzy, she quickly got dressed, ignoring the voice of reason which was shouting at her that what she was doing was self-destruction. She grabbed the keys and slammed the apartment door behind her. She was going to find someone to cover his kisses with his own, to make her forget the warmth of his fingertips, to erase his scent from her senses and his face from her mind.

* * *

His hand reached for the bottle and he frowned upon realizing that there was no liquor left. Damn, he could use a drink or two. Finally, he took a beer from the fridge and flopped onto the couch.

He wasn't getting it. Why was he so upset? Okay, things had gotten out of control a little, but it always took two to tango. She had wanted it, too. Why would it have been so wrong if he and Jordan… what? Had sex? Made love?... Jordan… No, he didn't love her. He didn't love her, but she was so sweet-smelling, so intoxicating, so tasty. He couldn't stop thinking about her. But it was entirely physical. Entirely physical. After all, she _was_ the best damn woman he had ever seen. Or in the top three, at least. Any red-blooded man would feel the same when she was so near. At the thought, he gripped a cushion and then snorted at the action. Desire, that was all that there was. And jealousy certainly had nothing to do with anything but that alpha male crap. And why was the freaking bottle empty?

He sighed, looking around, hoping that something, anything, would distract him. But she was everywhere he would look. How many times had she actually been at his place? Once? Twice? However, she was all around the tiny apartment. All those innumerous days and nights of imagining her there were now taking their toll. She was sprawled on that very same couch, reading the paper or watching TV. She was in the kitchenette, smiling at the marinara simmering on the stove. He was cooking, of course – Jordan and kitchen didn't really go well together. She was in the bedroom, fast asleep, peaceful, gorgeous… No, no, no and no, he did _not_ love her. He did not.

Yeah? And why, then, he still so longed to hear those words? To be able to snicker, to make her pay some imaginary dues by telling her he was sorry, but he had no feelings for her? No… He wanted to hear them to be able to tell her how his life was a living hell ever since he had been shot, to tell her he needed her to hold him a little tighter, that they could still try and make each other's demons run and maybe… just maybe… What? Be happy? Live happily ever after? He snorted again. Jordan sure as hell wasn't that type. And he wasn't, either. He knew that now.

He knew he had changed since Riggs. He also knew that everybody had noticed the change and been casting strange looks his way. However, he didn't mind it. He had changed for better. Of that he was sure. He was tougher now, in every sense, a better cop, too. And if some didn't like that, well, that was their problem, not his. Screw them.

Having reached that conclusion, he allowed himself to close his eyes and try to relax. As soon as his eyelids closed, though, Jordan appeared on them. He sighed, frustrated, and got up to turn on the stereo and take another beer. With a Guinness in his hand, he shuffled back to the couch. Damn, even the beer had to be Irish. Hey, maybe the song on the radio was _When_ _Irish_ _Eyes_ _are_ _Smiling_; that would add the final touch to that crappy day. It wasn't. Thom Yorke's voice was coming through the speakers.

… _You're just like an angel,_

_Your skin makes me cry._

_And I want you to notice_

_When I'm not around._

_I wish I was special._

_You're so fuckin' special._

_But I'm a creep,_

_I'm a weirdo;_

_What the hell am I doing here?_

_I don't belong here…_

He was pissed off. Getting him angry wasn't a difficult task these days anyway, and _Radiohead_ had done a great job. He didn't know why he was furious, though. How could a freaking song push his buttons like that? Yeah, ok, _she_ was beautiful, more than beautiful – she was stunning. One look at her and you wanted to touch her, kiss her, feel her, never let her go. And, yeah, you could say she was special – she was brilliant, compassionate, always in pursuit of justice, feisty… Hell, she was complicated. But she _was_ special, so fuckin' special indeed. He had never met a woman like her and he doubted he ever would. Not that he wanted to.

What _did _he want? Well, he did want to finish off this beer, to catch the murderer of Jacob Reilly and all other bad guys he could, to get a raise, to make Jordan realize he wasn't her puppet… Yes, to make Jordan notice when he wasn't around. He wanted her to realize that she needed him, that she could have had him, but she had let him go. She should suffer, just like he had when he used to love her. It was all her fault – his messed up life, the fact that he was all alone, the fact that he'd been shot… It was all her fault and she should pay. She should…

She shouldn't. It was all his fault. He buried his head in his hands as Farm Boy was trying to chase Tin Man away. It was all his fault. His and Riggs's. The fault of the piece of trash that had killed his father. Maybe even the fault of his father, always so distant, unable to take responsibility for his sons, and probably feeling guilty for not taking care of them like his wife would like him to. But it wasn't Jordan's fault. It had never been her fault. Her life most definitely hadn't been a bed of roses, either. She had been afraid of loving him. And she had been right. He was messed up, too. It would never work out. Wouldn't it? He certainly wanted to think so. If he kept telling himself that, he would maybe be able to forget that she had practically admitted she loved him, and that he had blown everything.

Jordan… He didn't deserve her. How he wanted to tell her he was sorry and get another chance to hear her utter those sweet words. But it was difficult to apologize. How to apologize to someone you had shooed from your hospital room? It was so difficult to apologize, especially after what had happened in her office. God… What had possessed him?... No, nothing had possessed him. That was who he was, what he had become. He was a creep indeed. Maybe he needed to take a break. Maybe he needed to relocate, to leave Boston. Boston wasn't home any more without his friends… without Jordan… He had pushed them all away. Jordan… No, he couldn't leave. He couldn't stand the thought of not seeing her. Those two months after she had left his hospital room… No, if he left Boston, that would mean all was over for good. He couldn't leave. But wasn't it over? It was. It was…No, it wasn't. It couldn't be. But what to do? What could he do?

That question didn't want to leave him alone. He couldn't think about anything else. Yet, he wasn't able to answer it. Finally, he realized there was one thing he could do. He wasn't looking forward to it, but he knew it was the only possibility. He glanced at the clock. Almost ten thirty. Maybe it was too late? It probably was, but he didn't want to, he didn't dare procrastinate. Sighing and then taking a deep breath, he headed for the telephone.

* * *

Jordan was sitting on a bar stool in the place that used to be the Pogue. The bar hadn't changed much, even the old jukebox was there.

"I really am a masochist," she muttered under her breath before taking care of her third shot of bourbon.

"Let me," a male voice addressed her when she raised her hand to draw the barman's attention.

Under normal circumstances, she would tell him to take a hike (probably using a more colorful vocabulary). As the circumstances were everything but normal, however, she only smiled at him and nodded slightly.

"You come here often?" The stranger initiated a conversation.

"Gosh," she thought, "is there a cheesier line?" Nevertheless, she smiled again. "Not really. You?"

It was his turn to smile, showing her perfect pearly white teeth. "Me neither." He leaned a bit towards her. "I'm Pete."

She scanned him. He was kind of cute. And, thank God, he didn't have blue eyes. After a short pause, she answered, "Lily."

* * *

It all happened fast. When she didn't remove his hand from her knee, Pete casually mentioned he lived only a block from there. Now they were walking to his building. As they were taking a shortcut through a dimly lit alley, her mind was telling her she should turn on her heel and leave. Immediately. For God's sake, she had been picked up in a bar! She was an adult, she was better than that. But that dark part of her wanted to suffer, to rush headlong into something, to hurt herself. After all, as an adult, she was entitled to casual sex, wasn't she? To prove herself that she wanted to do that, that she could do that, she stopped in a shadow, knowing that he would turn around to see what was happening. When he did turn, with a smile that seemed faked on his lips, she threw her arms around his neck and started kissing him. She didn't like the feeling. His wet, whisky-smelling kiss only made her long for Woody and his lips on hers. She pulled away, but Pete was obviously not getting the message.

"You can't wait, can you?" he hissed huskily, shoving her into a wall. "Fine by me," he added before giving her another of his french kisses which made her want to gag.

As his hand reached for her jeans, she managed to break the "kiss" and gasp out, "No… Stop… I-"

Tears of horror and of rage filled her eyes when he slapped her across the face. Her hand flew to the sore spot and his covered her mouth.

"You were asking for it," he growled. Then an ugly grin transfigured his handsome features, "You know you want it, bitch."

She was paralyzed, sick with fear. She felt the urge to vomit when he nibbled her ear before whispering, "Ooh, you're gonna have a real good time, honey." His other hand moved towards her jeans again. "You're gonna beg for more," he purred.

By that time, her blood had been circulating again and her brain had started functioning. She was completely sober. She waited for him to move in front of her again, knowing that that was her best shot. It didn't take long. Just as his sweaty fingers made their way to the bare skin under her tank top, she stroke back, knocking his testicles around, just like Bernie's a few years ago. While he was in agony on the concrete, whimpering and cursing simultaneously, she ran as fast as she could. She ran, stumbling over her own feet, unaware of passers-by and their shocked looks.

After a time, she didn't know how much, she stopped to catch her breath. Only then did she notice she had been crying. Realizing she was near Boston Common, she decided to enter and sit there for a while. She needed to regain her composure. Feeling too dirty to sit on a bench, she plopped onto the grass. She wanted to go home and wash away all the filth. She wanted to stand in the shower for hours. Then she wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep until she forgot what had happened. She wanted to go home so much. The problem was that she couldn't remember how to get there.

She buried her wet face in her hands and stayed like that for a while. Should she go to the police? No, no, no, no… No! No police. She couldn't let anybody know about that. She couldn't let Woody find out about that. Pete had been right; she had been asking for it. Just like she had been asking for that in her office. Woody already hated her. He must never ever find about what had happened in that alley. She would never be able to look him in the eyes again. She knew what his thoughts would be. He would think she had been asking for it. And he would be disgusted.

* * *

**P.S.** If you think the rating should go up, please let me know.

I know there wasn't a thing about the case here, but the chapter is already 3,000+ words, so... next time :)


	5. In My Darkest Hour

**Disclaimer****:** I do not own _Crossing_ _Jordan_.

**Note:** Happy New Year! I'm really, really sorry it took me so long to update. At first I had too packed a schedule, then I had a kind of writer's block. Finally, I almost finished the chapter when my laptop ran out of battery (while I wasn't in the room) and not even that useful thingy called Auto Recovery was able to save it.

In case you forgot where we were (and - trust me - I wouldn't blame you in the least bit): Jordan had a very unpleasant encounter with a guy called Pete, and Woody - realizing he needs help - made a phone call.

If anybody is interested, the title of this chapter comes from a song by _Megadeth_. It's one of their finest (at least as far as the lyrics are concerned), so if you don't know it and have some free time... :) I didn't have it in mind while writing, though. I remembered it a minute or two ago, so I changed the original title. :)

Last, but not least, I would like to thank my wonderful reviewers - **Mexwojo**, **ruth609**, **lbcjfan** and **BugFan4Ever**. I really appreciate it that you took the time to tell me what you thought about chapter four. :)

* * *

Woody was sitting in a pretty comfortable big black leather chair in the office of Dr. Howard Stiles, more certain than ever than he had made a mistake. This didn't even look like a shrink's office. For starters, it was pretty dark – thick burgundy drapes were only half open. Then, it was cluttered with something that to him looked like souvenirs from Egypt or something. There were also some strange glass thingies – at least he didn't know what they represented, as well as kinetic balls. He couldn't notice any further details as he was feeling more uncomfortable by the second. He felt blood rushing to his face, adding to his discomfort. It was ridiculous, really. He wasn't a kid. But that shrink was giving him the creeps. Hadn't he greeted him on arrival and talked to him last night, he would suspect Dr. Stiles was mute. Fidgeting in the chair, he focused on the psychiatrist's nameplate, trying hard to memorize its every scratch.

Dr. Stiles narrowed his eyes slightly, silently studying the man in front of him. As he had only seen him once or twice, in passing, his call had certainly surprised him. The detective had hesitated, sputtering while explaining that he had gotten the number from Lily Lebowski and that he would very much like to see the doctor if possible. Stiles hadn't failed to notice the hint of despair in the man's voice, so he scheduled the appointment immediately. Now he knew he had been right – Woodrow Hoyt was at the very edge. The man's hands – twitching, clutching his slacks, playing with car keys – were telling him that. Having assessed him, Dr. Stiles patiently waited for the detective to speak. He knew that the moment was near.

Indeed, Woody finally spoke. He tried to sound casual, but couldn't hide the irritation in his voice. He was fed up. Why had he come? He didn't know what to say, what to do. Wasn't this man supposed to help him? "Aren't we gonna talk?"

"Sure, let's talk," Stiles answered cheerfully, as was his custom. He seemed completely unmoved by the other man's harshness. "I wasn't sure you wanted to."

"Why would I come if I didn't?" Woody blurted out, his tone a notch higher than before.

Doctor looked him in the eyes, and retorted, this time in a serious voice, "You tell me."

"Aren't _you_ the shrink?" He had been struggling with himself the entire night. To come or not to come. He came, and what did he get? This clown pretending to be a shrink.

"So they say." Stiles smiled at him, unfazed.

"This is a complete waste of time!" Woody sprang from the chair.

"And it's can't be anything else until you stop refusing to open that can of worms," the state psychiatrist told to his back, warningly. "It's going to open itself eventually, you know," he added, almost softly. "If _you_ open it, and do it in time, maybe the worms won't eat you alive."

Woody turned and reoccupied his seat, sighing. What that funny little man had just said sounded terrifying, but – not so deep down – he knew it was true. Basically, it was now or never. Survive or fall so hard that it would be impossible to rise ever again.

Stiles allowed himself a little smile. "Now, let's talk."

"I don't know where to begin," Woody confessed.

"Beginning is usually a good place to do so."

"Okay. Let's see…" His lips twisted in a grimace that was supposed to be a smile. "It was a nice, sunny day in Kewaunee when I was born. Mom was just going to iron some Dad's shirts when-" He suddenly stopped, flashing his dimples at the psychiatrist apologetically. "Oh, but you didn't have _that_ beginning in mind, did you? You wanted to know when things got screwy, didn't you? Well, it didn't take long – Mom died when I was four. Then Dad got killed in the line of duty when I was sixteen, so I had to take care about my younger brother, who is good for nothing." He paused a little. When he went on, his voice was even more bitter. "AA, ADATSA, you name it – he's been in every damn group out there and he won't ever learn a thing. I won't know even if he does anyway. I kicked him out a few months ago. After he had gotten some of my friends and… some of them killed. And then, about two and a half months ago, I was shot by a nothing and I faced the possibility of paraplegia and kissing my job goodbye. How's that for a beginning?"

"Good." Dr. Stiles said simply. "But," he frowned a little, "I'm more interested in what you didn't mention." As the detective stared at him blankly, he explained. "Why yesterday evening? Why did you decide to start speaking precisely then? What happened?"

"Yesterday? Nothing special." He clutched at the chair, hoping that he sounded convincing.

He wasn't convincing enough for Howard Stiles, apparently, as the psychiatrist insisted. "What happened yesterday, Woody?"

"Yesterday…" he started, squirming. "Well, this woman and I, we almost…" he looked at the doctor sheepishly, before finishing incoherently, "…in her office."

Stiles smiled knowingly. "And that's a bad thing?" He seemingly joked, but – as the morgue employees had learned a long time ago – every single of his comments and questions had a purpose.

"Yes. Yes, it is," the younger man replied seriously. "It is… Because I think she… I think she thinks she has… feelings for me." The image of Jordan in her office, straightening her skirt, crying, her hair a mess, was so vivid; it was as if she was in front of him, and he cursed himself inwardly again. "And I don't want to take advantage of that because… I-I'm not who she thinks I am."

Dr. Stiles leaned towards him a bit. "Who are you?"

"I don't know. That's why I need your help." He obviously wasn't aware of how big a step he had just made – he had officially admitted he needed help. He just stared at the psychiatrist, looking like a lost puppy more than ever.

"Sure you already know who you are." The doctor smiled, almost warmly. "Accepting it is a whole new ball game. But you have to handle it."

* * *

It slowly dawned on her that that high-pitched beeping sound wasn't in her head. It was coming from her alarm clock. It seemed now like she had set it up in another life. She sat up on the bathroom floor, shivering. Her hair was damp, her clothes drenched, and that clock was making the noise from hell, but she just kept on sitting there, not wanting to move. Finally, she slowly lay down again, placing her head onto a carrot-orange towel, which was wet from her hair. Her teeth chattered. Apparently, standing under a shower of icy water fully dressed hadn't been a smart idea. Sleeping in the same outfit on ceramic tiles afterwards had been even more stupid, as it seemed. 'I've never been the brightest crayon in the box anyway,' she mused, curling up. It was so cold. But hypothermia could be a nice way out. She'd just fall asleep. That would be so easy; her eyelids felt heavy already. Placing her hand under her cheek, she shivered again. Her fingers felt colder than the tiles. It really was high time she got up, got dressed and went to work. But no, she couldn't go to work. She couldn't look them in the eye, talk to them. Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day. Or never. She embraced the vague hope that Garret would fire her if she just didn't show up for some time, without any explanation. Then she could stay here forever, without having to deal with people ever again… Nah, that wasn't Garret's style… He would come, wanting to know what was wrong. No, hypothermia was a far better solution. She didn't even have to do anything but keep lying there and wait for the never-ending sleep to claim her. 'But I somehow doubt I'd be that lucky,' she thought grimly just before her eyelids fluttered shut.

* * *

The doors to Trace opened abruptly, but that went unnoticed by the only person currently occupying that room. Bug slowly and quietly approached the leftmost desk, shaking his head slightly.

"Nigel," he called in a low voice, tapping his colleague's shoulder. However, the criminologist, who was "just resting his eyes," didn't raise his head from his arms, which were folded on top of the desk. "Nigel," he repeated, more loudly, but the Brit's sleep remained undisturbed. 'Third time's the charm,' Bug thought to himself before raising his voice even more.

Third time was the charm indeed as Nigel jumped, disoriented. "Checking, checking…" he mumbled, trying to sound enthusiastic.

"Checking what exactly?" Bug couldn't stifle a little laugh.

Although more than a bit embarrassed, Nigel intended to keep his dignity intact. "Whatever there is to check."

Bug had work to do too, so he let it go. "Fine," he said, taking a folder from the desk his friend was sitting at and heading towards a computer at the other side of the room.

Nigel followed. "I refuse to be everybody's computer lackey any longer," he whined. "No, seriously," he continued as if Bug had said something, though his colleague hadn't uttered a single word, "I spent the entire night trying to find anything on that audio tape for Capra." He rubbed his eyes, sighing a bit theatrically.

"Oh, come on, Nigel!" Bug shook his head. "You do that only because you don't want people to go to Sidney. If you would just-"

"Oh, hush, Buggles!" Nigel interrupted. "The new guy has some talent, I must admit. But we both know that the kid doesn't come close to the master of sweet computer science, so creative, but so exact at the same time…"

Bug just shook his head again at the now starry-eyed Nige, wondering why he had to wake him up.

In the middle of his rhapsody, Nigel's eyes fell on a pile of disks. "Oh yeah," he remembered, "then there was Woody with his surveillance tapes. He gave them to me yesterday afternoon and I haven't seen him since." He frowned – Woody didn't act like that. He would follow his progress closely. Actually, he would be so close that he would literally breathe down his neck.

"Nothing that Woody does these days can surprise me very much," said the entomologist, guessing his friend's thoughts.

However, Nigel wasn't listening to him at all. "I wonder…" he spoke almost dreamily.

Bug frowned. "You wonder what?" He wasn't really interested, but he knew he would have to hear it anyway.

"I wonder, Buggles, I wonder…" Nigel grinned from ear to ear. "You see, I left him with Jordan. In the same room; the automatically locked door, the tension you could cut with a knife. Maybe they took off for some place more private."

"Or maybe they killed each other," 'Buggles' offered solemnly.

Nigel didn't manage to express his opinion on that possibility because the door opened once again, and Garret popped his head into the room.

"Have you seen Jordan?" he asked without further ado.

"No," the entomologist answered simply.

The criminologist, on the other hand, couldn't be satisfied with that only. His gossip sensors had been activated. "Why? What's up, Dr. M?"

"She isn't in her office. Nobody has seen her. And Emmy says she hasn't called, either." Chief ME looked slightly worried.

Nigel, however, grinned again. "Maybe she just overslept."

* * *

The street was barely lit. It was blustery, and the cold was biting. She smiled, relieved, when she saw the light shimmering in _The Pogue_. Now that she had a clear goal in front of her, spring returned to her step. She hurried down the street, smiling, disregarding violent gusts of wind. The sign said "closed," but she knew her dad would be there. She slowly turned the doorknob and entered quietly. Max was there indeed, a cloth in his hand and a pile of glasses in front of him. She made a step towards him, but his voice stopped her dead in her tracks. He wasn't alone; he was talking to somebody sitting at the bar.

"You should have listened to me, Hoyt," he said in his thick Boston accent. "I warned you a long time ago."

She was relieved. It was "only" Woody. She opened her mouth, but remained silent upon hearing him sigh.

"I told you, Max. I thought you were protecting her."

Oh great, they were talking about _her_.

Her dad shook his grey head in disbelief. "Protecting her? From you?" It seemed to her that he was stifling a tear, and her heart broke a little. "You really know how to make a man laugh, kid." So, he _had_ been stifling a tear. Because he had been laughing. What the hell was going on? "Jordan," Max continued, pronouncing her name like "Jahden" or something, like only he did, which made her smile again, "never needed protection from men. It's actually the other way round, I'd say. She simply throws herself at them."

Her smile vanished. She began to shiver, feeling sick. No, she must have heard it wrong. She became all ears, trying to catch every single word of the conversation.

"What do you think why I left? Everybody around here knew she's my daughter. I couldn't stand the humiliation any longer."

She couldn't stop trembling. Feeling that her legs were going to refuse obedience any moment, she gripped a pillar. This just couldn't be true. Was this really her dad? Was it all some cruel joke? She would have asked him, but Woody spoke and she held her breath, hoping that he would finally say something nice.

"I know that now, Max." was all he said, and she wished to disappear. How could they?

"I even bought her a ring," he added after a time.

His tone cut her to the core. He sounded as if buying her a ring was the most stupid idea he had ever had. She wanted to tell him something, anything, but she couldn't – so big the shock was.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, kid." Max comforted him. "I got fooled by one of the same kind. Consider yourself lucky."

That was too much. "No!" she finally managed to say. She couldn't scream it, though, even if she wanted to. "No, I'm nothing like that! I'm not," she tried to defend herself. The two of them just stared at her, confused, probably wondering where she had come from. "I'm not," she sputtered while their faces got amused expressions. "I love you both so much. Just let me show you… Please…" They weren't even listening to her. Their hysterical laughter was the last thing she heard before diving into the darkness.

*

Suddenly, everything was clear again, and she was sitting at a table in the back of _The Pogue_. Woody was beside her. They were both looking at the ring glimmering at her left hand. It was the "friendship ring." She smiled, and he planted a small kiss on her lips.

"Just a little longer," he whispered, taking her hand and kissing it.

"And then-" she started, but was cut off by a male voice.

"Picking up strangers in bars again, eh, Jordan?"

Pressing her lips together, she turned to the newcomer. It was as though a thunder struck her when she saw who was grinning at her, barely an inch from their table. It was nobody else but ADA Jay Myers, a man she – inexplicably – had found attractive at one point in her life.

Feigning that he just recognized Woody, he addressed him. "Oh, it's you, detective! But she knows your name, doesn't she? Too bad." He clicked his tongue, as though to show his sympathy for the detective. "It reaaaly turns her on when you bed her after only five minutes of acquaintance," he continued, lowering his voice a bit and tilting his head towards Woody, feinting to give him advice in confidence. "But she's pretty darn good anyway, isn't she?" He winked at the other man, laughing heartily.

What she didn't understand wasn't so much why Woody wasn't reacting, though it did bother her that he just kept listening to Myers degrading her. What she really wanted to know was why _she_ wasn't doing anything about that. Instead of giving the bastard what he deserved, she sat there, motionless, shivering constantly.

"You know what she likes most?" The despicable man went on, gracing her with a long, leering look. "When you-"

An intense buzz of unknown origin filled her ears. She could see his mouth moving, but couldn't hear a word, and for that she was thankful. She closed her eyes, hoping that everything was going to be back to normal when she opened them. When she dared to do that, however, she realized how futile her hope had been. Instead of one, she was now facing two of her ex-… whatever who were reveling in the opportunity to spread some scuttlebutt about her.

"I'll repeat it, dude," she heard Tyler say as her sense of hearing was gradually returning. "You're not even close. What drives Jordan crazy…" he made a pause to size her up and give her a big, lazy smile, "is _actually_-"

"Take my advice, man." She gaped as Tom Crane materialized and started talking. "Just screw her. And I don't mean literally." He let out a small chuckle mixed with a snort. "She's more trouble than she's worth. My wife tried to kill herself because of her. And you really can find better than her at every corner."

She opened her mouth, but it was so dry, her tongue so heavy that she wasn't able to utter a word. Feeling helpless, she turned to Woody. Her heart sank completely when she saw him leaned forward, his eyes opened wide as he diligently listened to the ghosts from her past like a student would to his teachers. Another voice made her shudder.

"I'm telling you, pal," said Pete, a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "she was begging me to do it."

At that point, Woody got up from his chair. He slowly nodded to each man. She knew what the gesture meant. He was thanking them silently. He was acting towards them as they were some gentlemen who had just saved his life. At the same time, he was dismissing her as the biggest whore of them all. When he slowly headed for the exit, a part of her whispered that it was for the best, that he obviously didn't love her, that she should let him go. Another one screamed to go after him, make him understand. He must love her. And she couldn't lose him, no matter what. But she wasn't able to move. She kept shivering uncontrollably, unable to stand up. She did manage to speak, though.

"Woody, please… I'm not like they say. You know me." Although her voice was so low that she could barely hear herself, she somehow simply knew he heard each and every word. "Just don't go. Let me explain. Please, don't leave," she begged as he approached the door. With each step he made, she found it more difficult to breathe. "I told you what you wanted to hear… You can't trust them; let me tell you everything, the whole truth. Just don't go… Please?"

He never looked back. As the door closed behind him with a thud, she jerked up.

*

It was dark, and she looked around, alarmed. It took her some time to realize that she wasn't at _The Pogue_, but still on the bathroom floor. She obviously hadn't dreamed the shivering part. What was more, her head was about to explode and her throat was as dry as sand. She grabbed the edge of the hamper. Forcing her disobedient body to comply, she slowly got up from the tiles. Inch by inch, cursing her wobbly knees, she finally got to the washbasin. In accordance with that old saying about beggars and choosers, she bent down and drank the tap water lustily. The need fulfilled, she turned the faucet off and straightened. She didn't feel any better. On the contrary. She threw herself onto the rug beside the toilet just in time.

She didn't dare move from that spot for the next hour as the urge to vomit was coming back in regular intervals. Sitting there, gripping the rug and crying soundlessly, she couldn't but wonder whether she had ever felt so miserable in her entire life. The conclusion was affirmative, but that fact wasn't really helpful. What should she do? What _could_ she do? She didn't have a clue. As her throat started burning again, her old mantra started playing in her head, "Whatever they throw at you, you're not gonna let them beat you. You can get through it." 'Yeah, right,' she thought.

* * *

His talk with Dr. Stiles hadn't been a lengthy one, but he was finally doing something about his problems. Moreover, he had made another appointment for tomorrow. All that made him feel better, almost good. He entered the morgue almost cheerfully. As usual, he found Nigel in Trace.

"Hey."

"Hi, mate. I was just about to call you. I finished with your tapes." Nigel motioned towards the disks.

"And?"

"And I'm not very happy I have to tell you this…"

"Tell me what? That it wasn't the wife?"

"You're right, it wasn't her. Jordan says it took him about half an hour to die, and the widow spent about a minute in the apartment, some ten minutes before the uniforms arrived. But," Nigel's face turned sympathetic, "nobody else entered or exited Reilly's apartment for more than twenty-four hours. I've called a friend from the CSU, and one of the windows _would_ _be_ a possibility because the fire stairs are right beside it, but it was locked and…"

"Whoa, whoa, Nigel!" He felt the first signs of a promising headache. "Are you telling me..."

"That your killer is a phantom," Nigel finished Woody's sentence.

Woody took a deep breath. "Pack your bag, we're going back to the crime scene. And find Jordan."

"I'm afraid you're stuck with Bug. Jordan called in sick half an hour ago," Nigel informed him on his way to the door.

Woody hurried after him. If he had something to do, something to keep him busy, he wouldn't have the time to think about her. About what he had done to her. But it couldn't really have been him, right? What had happened yesterday wasn't nearly enough to shake Jordan up that much. Right?


	6. Under a Bell Jar

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Crossing_ _Jordan_.

**Note:** I'm sorry. I was hoping I'd be able to update sooner. Life, however, had other plans.

_The_ _Bell_ _Jar_ by Sylvia Plath is quoted loosely. Plath actually says, "[W]herever I sat - on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok - I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air." Please forgive me for allowing myself to quote this masterpiece.

**BugFan4Ever**, **ruth609**, **Mexwojo**, **KJ22**, **lbcjfan** and **AnaEvelyn**, thank you very much for your reviews. :)

* * *

Nigel stood in the doorway for a few moments, taking in – a day later than planned, due to a pile-up – the spacious living room of Jacob Reilly's four-room apartment. He nodded slightly a couple of times, approvingly, while he was eyeing the furniture, especially the big white leather sofa which occupied the central part of the room, and the thick deep burgundy rug with a discreet pattern which, in his expert opinion, had to be Persian. His eyes then fell on the abstract paintings on the white-painted wall, and widened when he recognized a work of Louis Jeffries. Just as he was about to express his impressions by whistling, his companion, who had entered first, turned to glare at him. Apparently, Woody was always in a bad mood these days. The fact that Bug hadn't wanted to come with them, claiming that – since there was no body – that wasn't his job, only added to his edginess.

Stifling a sigh, Nigel broke the silence. "What are we looking for?" He tried to sound enthusiastic.

"If I knew, I would have come alone."

Woody didn't appreciate his friend's attempt. Bug's refusal to help had him more than miffed. Actually, it was the reason behind the refusal that annoyed him. It seemed that Lily was down with the flu, and Bug had offered to bring her some medications and chicken noodle soup. 'He's running after her, and she doesn't give a rat's ass,' Woody thought bitterly, approaching the windows. 'Like she cares if he's bending over backwards for her. _I_ should now.'

He was so absorbed in thought that he didn't even catch Nigel's muttered, "Pleasant as usual."

"Did you dust for prints here the other day?" Woody finally spoke again, pointing at the handle of the French doors.

"As you may recall, Woodrow, I wasn't here," Nigel retorted, taking the necessary equipment from his bag. "Jordan'd drawn the short straw, so she had to pick him up at those wee hours." Assessing the detective's scowl, he quickly amended, "But I guess the CSU people did."

Woody was unnecessarily sharp, as he usually was ever since he'd come back after the shooting. "Guess is not good enough. See if you can get anything." After a moment, he added, "She could have closed the window before she ran out and started to cry." He wasn't giving up on the possibility that the widow had done it; not yet.

"Yes, sir." Nigel all but saluted, rolling his eyes, and then got down to work. "I'd say we've got a good partial of the thumb. And it's bloody," he murmured, taking a photo of the print. "I'll run it against the victim's."

He went back to his bag, and pulled out a palmtop, thanking Slocum silently. The man may be a pompous, self-righteous, prejudiced bastard, but he certainly knew that a morgue needed all kinds of gadgets, especially the cutting-edge ones like this baby, and gave money for them more easily than Macy. Not that he would ever trade Dr. M. for the monster because of whom he had had to wear a wig. He shuddered at the mere thought. The computer beeped then, waking him from his reverie. "It's his, alright," he addressed the detective. As his words didn't provoke any response, he turned to the windows. Nobody was there. "Woody?" he called, approaching the French doors, which were open wide. "Woody?" he repeated, confused, when he saw that Reilly's balcony was empty.

Woody smiled at him from the balcony belonging to the apartment next door. "This is how he got in. There is no other way." His tone was victorious. He motioned for Nigel to see for himself that the apartment on the other side of Reilly's didn't have a balcony.

The criminologist nodded. That mystery was solved. But it opened another one, a bigger one. "Then that's how he got out, too, right?" The question was rhetorical, obviously, as he continued immediately, "Well, why would Jacob Reilly close his French doors after his murderer? And how?"

* * *

With a swift movement, Jordan pulled a bottle from her cosmetic bag. Her fingers hovered over the cap for a couple of seconds. Then she sighed and shoved the makeup foundation back into the bag. For the fifth time, at least. Taking a deep breath, she turned her back to the mirror and headed towards the living room. There was no point in fighting the urge because it was impossible to resist it.

She strode to the little cocktail table and grabbed her cell. She pushed number two before she could change her mind. After no more than a ring, she was greeted by the receptionist's chirpy, "Chief Medical Examiner's Office. Emy speaking. How can I help you?"

By that time, her heart rate had accelerated so much that she wasn't able to speak. She snapped the phone shut and concentrated on exhaling and inhaling. When her pulse was back to normal, she pressed her sweaty fingertips to her temples. "Get a grip. Get a grip. Get a grip. Get a grip…" she kept on murmuring.

What was wrong with her? She didn't have anxiety attacks. Especially not over lying Garret about why she was late, or – in this case – why she wasn't coming to work. Then again, she was always coming to work. When she wasn't on the run, that is. Not that she was going to run away this time. What was the point, anyway? _Wherever I was, I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air._ Where did she read that? She didn't know, and she didn't care. But it was true. Relocating had never solved any of her problems. On the contrary.

But what _could_ solve her problems? What _could_ help? She didn't know. But she _did_ know that staying in the apartment couldn't. It wasn't safe here. She could only stare at the walls while they were closing in on her, or sleep while the nightmares made her feel nauseated and wake up in sweat. She needed to keep herself busy. If she didn't have time to think, everything was going to be okay. She would forget everything, everyone – Pete, Woody, her dad, her stupidity…

As she re-entered the bathroom, she tried to smother the voice in her head which was constantly whispering that nothing was going to be okay ever again, especially if she continued to pretend everything was fine. Applying the foundation, she quietly hummed to herself to shut the voice off completely.

The eye shadow was next. She was sick of seeing her face in the mirror. She only wanted to get it over with. Why did women put makeup, after all? Because of themselves? Yeah, right. She smiled wryly, proceeding to the eye pencil. They did it to be _desirable_. And being desirable was the last thing she wanted now. She'd rather be invisible.

"And a little mascara, as usual. You don't want them to think something's wrong," she reminded herself.

When all was done, she looked in the mirror once more. Would her life be any different if she was totally plain? Not that she was a drop-dead gorgeous, but what if she were utterly plain? If men didn't pay attention at her at all? What did they like about her, anyway? It sure as hell wasn't her mind, soul, whatever – not after five minutes of acquaintance. Maybe Max from her dream was right; maybe she was throwing herself at them. She shrugged the thought off. _Not now._ She forced herself to throw another glance – she needed to know whether she looked different than usual. She didn't. Not even the dark shadows under her eyes were uncommon. The only thing different from her usual self was the clothes. She was wearing a brown turtleneck with a button-down shirt of the same color. She hadn't dressed like that since early college. Late high school, maybe. But this wasn't a fashion statement. This served a real purpose, the purpose of masking her figure as much as possible. At the same time, the clothes weren't too baggy. She didn't want to have to face any questions. Not that anyone but Nigel or Lily would ask, especially not the first time, but… just in case.

Feeling cunning, but not in the least bit content, she took her purse and hurried to work. She was already more than ten minutes late.

* * *

"Never had any trouble with him," Mr. O'Neill, the superintendent of Reilly's building told Woody and Nigel. "He moved out yesterday." Nodding in sympathy, he added, "Mr. Reilly's murder had upset him pretty much."

"I bet it had," Nigel interjected, sotto voce.

Woody glowered at him and addressed the super. "Mr. O'Neill, do you happen to know who," he glanced at his notepad, "_Mr. Jackson's_ landlord was?"

"Actually, I do. Mrs. Reilly bought that apartment for her mother, but the old lady didn't want to move from Pennsylvania." He scratched his bald head and allowed himself to mumble, "Such a stubborn old lady." For a moment, his green eyes were hazy as he revisited some not so pleasant memories from the holidays Mrs. Murphy had spent with her daughter's family, always complaining about this or that in the apartment. Then he returned to the present. "Mrs. Reilly started renting the place a couple of months ago." He frowned, trying to concentrate. "In fact, I think Mr. Jackson was her first tenant."

* * *

"I don't understand," Meghan Reilly repeated, flipping through a bunch of papers.

"His apartment… _Your_ apartment is clean," Woody tried again, at his wit's end. "Insanely clean. Everything has been wiped clean. There are no fingerprints whatsoever."

"I still don't understand." She singled a sheet out.

Woody sighed exasperatedly, and Nigel cut in, afraid that his friend's temper may manifest itself. "It is in the interest of the investigation to have Mr. Jackson's fingerprints. And this contract seems to be the only way to get them." He smiled a sad little smile at her. Woody was still convinced she had played a part in her husband's murder, but he felt sorry for her. She obviously still hadn't returned to normal.

"Here it is." She handed him the lease agreement. "I hope it helps," she added, raising her pleading puffy eyes to them.

"Thanks," Woody said shortly, while Nigel nodded, the same sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

* * *

The lease agreement successfully obtained, Nigel and Woody split their ways. The criminologist went to the lab to examine the contract, and the detective hit… well, not the couch, but the armchair in Dr. Stiles's office.

"Surprise," he answered the psychiatrist's question. "It was surprise more than anything. I guess I didn't really think he'd do it. I should have known better." He smiled mirthlessly. "But then I saw the look in his eyes. And I knew… It was like slow motion… I knew what was coming, but I couldn't do anything. I didn't do anything. I just stood there." He shook his head. "I didn't do anything," he repeated quietly.

"You couldn't have done anything, and you know it," Stiles said firmly. "What could you have done in less than a second?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. "You _know_ there was nothing you could have done," he underlined.

He waited for some time, but as Woody didn't go on, he prompted. "What happened next?"

Woody hesitated. Did he really want to relive that memory on purpose? Weren't the nightmares enough? He finally spoke, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Next thing I know, my back's against the wall, I'm in cold sweats and my abdomen's on fire." He paused briefly. "I tried to move, but I couldn't. Through a haze, I heard shots. And yelling. I saw blue everywhere. I was waiting for my life to start unwinding before my eyes."

"Oh, it didn't?" Smiles smiled at him.

He returned the smile. "Guess Hollywood's been lying to us."

"Now, that's a shocker," the doctor retorted. Then he returned to the topic, but kept his tone light. "So, you just went unconscious?"

"Yes."

"Or maybe you didn't."

"Maybe I did."

"Man can keep something to himself for only that long," Stiles cautioned. "Or, he may keep it to himself forever, but it is going to keep eating him up inside."

Woody made a face. "That's getting old, you know."

"Of course it is." Stiles's tone was again annoyingly light, teasing even.

After some time had been spent in – at least for him – uncomfortable silence, Woody spoke again, "So? You're just gonna wait till I tell you?"

"That's the plan."

"What if I never do?" he insisted.

"But you will," the psychiatrist was confident. "If you want to feel better. And you want to. That's why you're here."

'What if I can never feel better?' He couldn't but think that every now and then. Okay, far more often then every now and then. To avoid the thought, he focused on the question. "I didn't see my whole life. I saw _her_. But at the time, I always saw her. Whenever I closed my eyes." He remained quiet for some time. "Anyhow, I knew I was going to die. That is, I thought I was going to die. And I kept thinking how I couldn't die right away, how I must keep my eyes open until I saw her just once more." He shook his head slightly, muttering something that resembled "Such a fool." His eyes dropped to the floor. Maybe it would be easier if he imagined nobody was listening. "And then I heard her."

He stood and started pacing the room. "I heard panic in her voice, and I forced my eyes open. Not so much to see if that was really her – I knew it was, but to tell her it was okay, to tell her not to worry. But I couldn't speak." His hands clenched into fists. "Oh, but she could speak, alright! She told me she could say what I wanted to hear. So she told me I was 'so much to her'," he spat the last few words out. "Yeah, right, that was exactly what I wanted to hear!" he finished, kicking the chair he had been sitting in. He ran his hands through his hair and then buried his face in them. What surprised both him and Stiles was that he hadn't bolted for the door.

"What did you _want_ to hear?" Stiles sounded politely interesting.

The question ticked him off again. "Oh, I don't know," he answered, trying to add a hint of sarcasm to his voice, "Maybe that she loved me." His voice was dripping with bitterness now. "But no, even when I was on my deathbed, she couldn't say the freaking words!"

He felt stupid, opening himself like that. At the same time, he felt the excruciating need to finish what he had started. He paced for a few more minutes before he continued. "Not that I care. And it's better that she didn't lie. She had said enough lies already. I was nothing to her."

Stiles leaned in. "How do you know?"

"I know."

"How?"

"I know," Woody repeated stubbornly.

"Sure you do." Howard Stiles stifled a sigh. Then he decided to try another path. "Just for the sake of curiosity, are we talking about the same woman here as we did yesterday? You know, the one with an office?" He half-smiled. When the detective just kept circling around the room, he concluded, "So, we are." After some more silence, he added, "You told me yesterday she had feelings for you."

"I said she thought she did."

"I think you know she does," the doctor pressed.

"If you say so."

"So, are you taking revenge now?" Stiles asked for clarification. "Playing hard to get?"

Woody ran a hand across his face. "I'm not playing anything." He sat across the other man again. "I don't want to play anything. I simply don't… love her anymore."

"I see."

But it was clear to Woody that he _didn't_ see, so he tried to explain. "How can you keep pushing away somebody you love? How can you shoo that person out of your hospital room. How can you be deliberately rude to her every time you see her? How can you even think of hurting her back?"

"Love is a powerful emotion," Stiles said, satisfied they were finally going somewhere. "A very complicated one, too. People are complicated. Nothing is ever black-and-white." He stifled another sigh. For, although that fact was pretty obvious, most of his patients overlooked it. "And traumatic events have never made things easier."

* * *

After his hour with Dr. Stiles, Woody didn't feel like going home. Instead, he dropped by the morgue to see whether Nigel had anything new. He peeked his head into Trace, but Nigel wasn't there, only Jordan. He felt his heart in his throat. She seemed oblivious of his presence, and he considered simply walking away. The fear that the things would get even more complicated was oppressive. _Could_ they possibly get more complicated? He simply stood there, frozen, for some time. Then he took a deep breath. They needed to talk; he needed to apologize.

"Hey."

She winced a little. "Hey."

It wasn't really a good sign that she hadn't looked up from the test-tubes she was arranging in a rack. He didn't give up, nevertheless. "How are you?"

She wasn't giving up, either. On one-syllable answers, that is. "Fine."

"I heard you were sick." There definitely was a hint of worry in his tone, but that only irritated her further.

"Yeah." What game was he playing? She didn't even want to know.

He thought it would be easier if he didn't have to look into her eyes. But it wasn't. It hurt that she wouldn't even look at him. Not that he blamed her. "Listen, Jordan… About the other day-"

"It's okay," she said curtly.

"I…" he started again, taking a step towards her.

"I said it's okay," her voice had the slightest note of agitation in it. Darn, why wouldn't he just leave it alone? Nothing he could say would make it all right. If he continued to push her, she would fall to pieces. Right here, right now.

"Doesn't seem that way," he muttered almost inaudibly. He approached her, looking at her intently. "I'm sorry, Jordan. I shouldn't have… I was way out of line. I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted." She took the rack and headed for the mass spectrometer. "Now, if you don't mind… I've got work to do."

But he refused to be dismissed so easily. He was really worried now. "What's wrong, Jordan?"

She almost laughed. 'What isn't?' Out loud, she offered, "You mean besides the fact that my backlog still doesn't take care of itself?"

"Tell me what's wrong, Jordan. Please." He felt it wasn't just what had happened between them two days ago. As if _that_ wasn't enough… There was something else. He was sure of that, although he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Nothing is wrong," she claimed. "Would you now just leave and let me do my job?" Her knuckles turned white on the rack. "This has nothing to do with you. _I_ have nothing to do with you. The world doesn't revolve around you," she reminded him, much or less throwing her self-control out the window. "Just leave me alone! Go away and pretend that I don't exist!"

He ignored her little outburst, though replying seemed tempting. Something serious was wrong, and he needed to know what that was. "What's going on, Jordan?" he pleaded. For a moment, he forgot that their relationship wasn't what it had been. All he could think about was that he had to help her. He gently lifted her chin, making her look at him. "Why can't you look at me?"

She jumped backwards. The rack hit the floor, one of the test-tubes shattering and the blood from it spilling across the floor. She didn't even seem to notice. "Don't touch me! Don't you ever do something like that again!" Her voice and her whole body were shivering. Nobody could make her do anything. _Nobody_ would make her feel helpless ever again. "Don't come near me! Ever again!" she warned him before turning on her heel and storming off.

He still stood in the same spot, dumbfounded, long after she had left.


	7. Realizations

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Crossing Jordan_.

**Note:** I know I'm repeating myself, but I am sorry it took me so long to update. I hope to have the next chapter up in seven to ten days. (All information concerning updates will be on my profile, where you currently can find a very cute Jill Hennessy quote, which - I think - will at least make you giggle. :))

Thanks to everybody who's reading, but special thanks to **2merryann**, **BugFan4Ever**, **KJ22**, **lbcjfan** and **Mexwojo**.

* * *

"Sweet Nancy!" Nigel stopped dead in his tracks. "What's happened here?"

"Nothing," Woody answered, his reverie broken. "Jordan dropped some test-tubes."

The criminologist went past him, careful not to step into blood. "Well, she knows we keep cloths and stuff here," he said, bending and opening a cupboard. "No need to call Brian because of a couple of drops. That boy already has too much on his plate."

"I don't think she went to find Brian, Nige," Woody clarified quietly.

"Why?" Nigel straightened up, dropping a magic cloth. Suspicion filled his eyes. "What did you do to her? What now?"

Woody snapped, irritated by the resurfacing anger in the other man's voice. "Nigel, I don't think that's your-"

"Oh, just shut the bloody hell up!" Nigel had had it enough too, and this time he was going to give Woody a piece of his mind. "I've watched this for long enough! We all have! We thought it was just a transitory phase, that you'd stop being a jerk eventually. But no! You're just getting worse every day! And I'm fed up! You're not gonna hurt her any more; not if I have anything to-"

"Well, you don't!" Woody interrupted him, grinding his teeth together as he spoke. "What's up with all you people here? Why do you think you have the right to mind everyone's business? What gives you the right to know everything?" He waved his hands around.

"I have the right!" Nigel insisted. "_We_ have the right. Because Jordan is our friend." He jabbed a finger at Woody. "And we're going to protect her. She's our friend." He was already at the door when he turned around to add, "Just like you used to be."

* * *

"So, what is it?" inquired Dr. Howard Stiles when his patient ended his rant.

Woody's eyes widened slightly. The doctor's bluntness never ceased to amaze him. Wasn't this weird guy supposed to… you know, help him? Making him feel stupid wasn't very helpful. "What do you mean?"

"You've been avoiding talking about your brother," Stiles said as if that explained everything, and the look in Woody's eyes changed. He should have known it by now – he was busted; again. The strange little man wasn't nearly as benign as he pretended to be. He was shrewder than people would give him credit for before they got to know him. In a way, he reminded Woody of himself. "Today you show up and start talking all about him, out of the blue," the doctor finally continued, seeing that the other man wasn't going to speak up.

"And? I thought it was a good thing. You know, I'm opening up, trying to work through my difficulties," retorted the detective, struggling to sound nonchalant while his mind was frantically searching for something to sidetrack the psychiatrist with. Although he knew he shouldn't be doing that, that he should tell everything to this man, he simply couldn't help himself. After keeping so much inside for so long, opening up was excruciating.

"It _would_ be a good thing. But there are two things which concern me." The degree of indifference in Stiles's voice matched that in Woody's, but his eyes were serious.

"Yeah?" Woody blurted out. "And what could those be?"

"For starters, you don't have difficulties. You have problems. Serious problems with controlling your temper, to begin with." The doctor gave him one of his playful little smiles. A somewhat more careful observer, however, wouldn't miss a hint of sadness in it.

"Oh, okay, I get it." The other man shrugged, returning the smile. He was stalling, weighing his options, plotting how to exit that office as soon as possible, but without throwing a tantrum. "I'm a lost cause."

"You know, you _are_ turning into my most difficult nut." Stiles nodded. "And here I thought I'd never see the day," he added under his breath, mentally counting how long it was until the next yearly evaluation of the feisty, sarcastic and not-in-the-least-bit-cooperative brunette "nut" also known as Jordan Cavanaugh, M.E.

"Great." Woody's voice came out a little harsher than he wanted. "Since we've established that, I think I can go." He stood up. "Thanks so much for your help."

Disregarding the detective's sarcasm followed by a toothy grin, the psychiatrist asked, "Don't you want to know what the other thing is?"

"Do I have to?"

"Oh, I just thought you wanted to." He smiled again. "Oh, well, never mind." He waved his hand dismissively.

Woody snorted. This was so stupid. He wasn't a five-year-old. Nevertheless, to his horror, the words escaped him before he knew it. "Okay, what is it?" He reoccupied his seat, as to admit defeat. What the hell, he _could_ talk to Dr. Stiles a bit longer.

Stiles showed no sign of triumph. He intertwined his fingers and leaned forward in his chair. "You're talking about Calvin because you want to keep something else from me. Something that has happened recently."

"So, what are you now? A psychic?" Woody mentally kicked himself. What was wrong with him? It seemed that his tongue was way faster than his brain these days.

It was the doctor's turn to a full-fledged toothy grin. "No, I'm better." After a moment, he went on, keeping his tone light. "I'm afraid you have to realize that hiding things is a no-no. And not just because I'm insanely nosy, which I am, but because it won't bring you any good."

Woody sighed, surrendering. "Okay, so maybe something _has_ happened." The surrender wasn't unconditional, though. "And maybe I'm not ready to talk about it." He sighed again. "Can't you just focus on why I take six sugars in my coffee or why I like caramel lattes or something like that? And how it all relates to my frustrations over the way I raised Cal, or something."

"Ah, now we're going somewhere!" the doctor practically exclaimed, and Woody tensed. "'Raised,' you see," Stiles smiled at him widely, "that's the key word. You are his brother; you weren't supposed to raise him."

"And who was? With Mom and Dad at the local cemetery?"

"You told me you went to live with your aunt Marge after your father died," the doctor pointed out.

"He didn't _die_!" Woody was surprised by the volume of his own voice, though he wasn't quite sure why – he was yelling a lot these days. He exhaled through clenched teeth before he spat out, "He was killed. Shot like a dog by a nothing."

"And you're still angry at him?" It was almost more of a statement than question.

"Angry? Why would I-" The detective started shouting yet again, but stopped mid-sentence and took a deep breath. Then he continued, considerably less loudly. "Yes! Yes, I am! I mean… Geez! That was such a stupid way to die. He was so stupid… To think the kid wasn't dangerous…" His voice trailed off.

"Like you thought?" the doctor asked in a quiet voice.

Woody took another deep breath before answering that. "Yes, just like I thought," he conceded.

"Is that why you're so angry? Because you were stupid?" Stiles prodded. "Or because you were just like your dad?"

The answer was almost inaudible. "Both." Then he lifted his eyes to the other man and spoke up. Maybe it was time to tell it aloud, to voice the thought he had smothered innumerous times in the last two and a half months. "I thought I was a good cop. Things were going pretty well after I'd moved to Boston. And then… bam! I was no better than some yokel cop from Kewaunee."

"So, you think your dad was just some yokel cop?" Stiles leaned in another inch, his eyes unreadable.

Woody shook his head. "No." That was truth. 'Dad may have been a lousy father, but he was good at his job.' "He was good. He was a good cop."

"But you wanted to be better than him," the doctor said matter-of-factly, nodding slightly.

Silence ensued. Woody felt as though the other man's eyes were boring holes through him. Finally, he stifled another sigh and began, "I wanted to be a good cop. I wanted to make a man out of Calvin. My Dad… he… well, he didn't really pay much attention to us. Aunt Marge used to babble around that he was like that ever since Mom died. And I didn't want Cal to feel his absence the way I already had. I wanted him to have someone to talk to. I wanted to be a better brother… a better father, maybe, to Cal than Dad had been to me. My babying Cal had started even before Dad died." The corners of his lips twitched, and then a bitter smile flashed across his face before he proceeded. "Anyhow, I guess I wasn't exactly babying him. I was just like Dad, if not worse. Hell, I _was_ worse. Look what Cal has become – drug and alcohol abuse combined with a gambling problem, unreliable, lying-" He shook his head, and a little, mirthless laugh escaped him. "You can just see that whoever raised him did a great job."

"Maybe you _were_ babying him?" Stiles countered. "Co-dependency is-"

"I know what the hell co-dependency is!" Woody cut him off, his face reddening and his hands rolling into fists. "And don't you try to tell me _I_ was enabling him! Because I wasn't! Dragging him to rehab wasn't enabling. Leaving him to lead his own life afterwards wasn't enabling. Yes, I gave him some money a couple of times, but I couldn't let them kill him, could I? Even if I _was_ enabling him, which I wasn't, I'm not doing it any more," he finished, almost breathless. After a moment, he added, "I haven't heard from him in months."

"Maybe you should call him."

"Maybe I shouldn't."

"It's up to you," Stiles admitted. "I see you've given co-dependency quite a thought. No, as a matter of fact, I don't think you were Calvin's enabler."

"That doesn't change what he has become, does it?" He was concentrating hard on the doctor's nameplate.

"No, it doesn't. But that's not your fault. You were just a child yourself." Stiles was talking slowly, as though Woody still was that child and he was afraid he wouldn't understand him.

"Still… I should have helped him."

"You can't help somebody who doesn't want help," said the doctor. His voice was firm, almost authoritative. "That's one of life's most difficult lessons, the one that takes a lot of time to learn." When his patient finally looked up to him, his voice softened a bit. "You know which one is even more difficult? The one that teaches us that we can't really help even the people who want our help. We can only support them while they're fighting their fights. We can't fight instead of them, no matter how much we want to."

* * *

"Hey," Woody greeted the people in Trace Evidence sheepishly. He hadn't forgotten the morning's events, and he was sure they hadn't either.

"Hey," Bug replied in a level voice before he headed for the door. As much as he didn't want to leave Nigel and Woody alone, his shift was over and Lily was expecting him. His priorities were clear.

Nigel remained silent. He didn't even look up from his keyboard; he just kept on typing, hitting keys with a little more force than necessary.

After squirming for a minute or two, Woody came to the conclusion that the criminologist wasn't going to make things easier. Not that he could blame him. He approached his friend.

"Look, Nigel, I'm sorry. You're right. I've been acting like an idiot lately." He hesitated, struggling to find words and hoping for any kind of reaction from Nigel. As Nigel's stance didn't change the least bit, he went on, "But, Nige, you can't think I'm doing that to her on purpose… I don't want to hurt her."

By the time he finished, Nigel had left the keyboard alone and turned to face him. "You have to work it out, mate," he told him quietly, his dark eyes radiating compassion. He felt bad for Woody, but even more for Jordan. She looked like a living dead these days, and he couldn't do anything to help her…

"I know," Woody retorted grimly, discontinuing his friend's train of thought.

At that very moment, a computer beeped, and Nigel wheeled himself to it in his office chair.

"That's it. The last database. Our mysterious man remains a mystery," he announced.

"Swell." Woody ran his hands across his face. "Can anything else possibly go wrong these days?" he muttered.

"Despair not, my dear Woodrow," Nigel, completely in his element now, wheeled himself back to the computer he had been working on, "I may have a little something for you." He turned to the monitor, and Woody did the same, trying to make something out of the burgundy mess spread across the screen.

"This, my friend," Nigel continued, "is the rug from Reilly's living room. It's been a little slow here, so I allowed myself to analyze the blood stains I photographed. You see," he magnified a portion of the carpet, "there are quite a number of these – from their shape and position, it's clear that they are the result of the spatter from when Reilly was stabbed."

He zoomed in another spot before proceeding. "But, see these little beauties, Woodrow? They go all the way from the spot where we found Reilly's body to the French doors. From their shape, I assessed the angle from which the blood must have fallen. Somewhere around ninety degrees, Woodrow, somewhere around ninety degrees." He grinned smugly.

"Which tells us what?" Math never was Woody's cup of tea. Not that any other science was.

"It tells us he walked to the French door," Nigel explained, a bit impatient, turning to face him. "And back, I guess."

"It's not like we haven't already known that, right?" Woody started pacing around. "I mean, we did find his bloody fingerprint on the handle," he finished, unmoved by Nige's pouting.

"Yes," admitted Nigel, "but it's kind of confirmed now, don't you think?" He turned to the computer again, wondering why he was always casting pearls before swine.

Woody didn't have time to reply, as his cell phone rang at that instant.

"This is Hoyt," he answered it in his usual manner. After a few minutes, the conversation was finished with his "Thank you very much."

He flipped the phone shut and turned to Nigel, whose eyes were open wide with curiosity. The fact that Woody had been silent during the entire "conversation," and that – consequently – he hadn't been able to find out anything about the call was eating him inside.

"Well, Nige," Woody smiled at him, "I think we can now be pretty sure why Reilly closed the door after 'Mr. Jackson.'" Not having Nigel's innate feel for drama, he continued without making a theatrical pause, "It took some time to have Reilly's finances checked, but I finally got some answers. It appears that playing at the stock market isn't for everyone. It was a matter of time – weeks, actually – when he would go bankrupt. He did have a life insurance policy worth some million and a half bucks, though."

"But his family wouldn't get the money if he killed himself," Nigel cut in, the realization dawning on him.

Woody nodded.

"So, you think he hired a hitman?" Nigel speculated.

"That's a possibility."

"Do you think the wife knew about that?" Nige went on with his speculations.

"That's another one," the detective answered. "I'm going to pay her a visit and find out."

Nigel was already standing, zipping his jacket up. "I'm coming with you."

"Nigel," Macy's growl entered Trace even before his frame, "where's the ballistic report on the Jones case? You said it was going to be finished by noon, and it's six o'clock now."

Nigel sat down immediately. "I'm on it, Dr. M. Just a minute."

"That's exactly how much time you have," Garret informed him. "I'll be in my office."

When Chief M.E. left, Woody tapped Nigel's shoulder sympathetically. "I'm sorry, mate," he added before heading to the door. The criminologist just nodded absent-mindedly, scribbling at almost unbelievable speed.

* * *

As he walked towards the elevators, Woody _had_ to glance towards _her_ office. The light was on, and the door was ajar. It meant she was still there, and he found himself a step from her threshold before he even knew it. He was being torn apart yet again – the more rational part of him was telling him that he should leave, that he should let some time pass, especially after the fiasco from this morning; still, his whole being needed to see her, to hear her. Most of all, he needed to make sure she was okay. She had scared him in the morning – he clearly remembered his impression that something important, more important than his childish tantrums, was affecting her.

"Jordan…" He started, standing beside the office door. "Jordan, before you freak out," he mentally kicked himself for his choice of words, "I'm not going to enter; please, just hear me out. I know I don't deserve it, but please…" Everything was so quiet that he was beginning to wonder whether she really was there. Maybe he was talking to an empty office. He still didn't dare peak his head inside, however, so he continued, "I need to apologize. I really need to. I know it's not enough, but I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, Jordan. The other day, I shouldn't…" He shook his head, the seriousness of what he had done that day hitting him again. '_Childish tantrums_, my ass. I was… Oh God.' "It was like I lost my mind. I didn't want to force you into anything. I know it doesn't look that way, but I really… I would never… If I could turn the time back, I would, Jordan, please believe me. I know it doesn't mean anything, but I've been feeling awful about it… I-"

She didn't feel like having that conversation, especially not now. After that little scene in Trace that morning, she had coaxed Peter into letting her do his autopsies too, which meant that she had done four of them that day. She was exhausted, but not enough to fall into dreamless sleep, not enough to not think, so she decided to go back to her office and do paperwork until she was blue in the face. She really didn't want to talk to him. For God's sake, she was trying to escape from the very thought of him... 'Why does he have to be so pig-headed?' she kept asking herself.

Out loud, she offered: "I already told you it was okay."

"Jordan, are you okay?" he asked, alarmed. Her voice was gruff; she sounded like she had been crying. "You've been… strange lately."

"Look who's talking," she muttered under her breath, but he heard her and his lips curled into a smile. 'It can't be too bad if she's making such remarks, right?'

"I'm okay," she said more loudly. "You didn't force me into anything. This has nothing to do with you, trust me," she told him, involuntarily putting a slight emphasis on the _you_'s. He didn't seem to notice it, though.

"Jordan-"

"Please, just go," she cut him off. "I don't feel like talking. I already forgot what happened. I've got other problems, so just go."

"What problems? Jordan, you can-" he insisted.

"No, I can't," she cut him off again. She hated the concern in his voice. He had told her he didn't love her. What did he want now? She didn't want to be his friend. She wanted him to… 'Idiot!' she chastised herself. 'As if anybody could _love_ you. You're just everyone's favorite fuck buddy, that's what you are.' Feeling fresh tears rolling down her face, she kept quiet, praying for him to go away. She was too afraid to speak up, as she had a feeling that she would be squeaking more than talking.

Just as he was about to open his mouth again, a shrill sound filled the air. She literally jumped a little, but then almost smiled – his phone was helping her cause. However, he only swore under his breath, and ignored the ringing.

"Jordan… Why don't you… You _can_ tell me. I-" Irritated, he finally pulled the phone, which was ringing incessantly, out of his pocket. He sighed at the caller's ID. Cutting Jordan some slack, he answered his captain's call.

Just as he was about to say _yes, Sir_ one last time, the door was slammed in his face. He winced; he'd never heard her approach. Jamming the phone back into his pocket, he cursed silently – mostly himself and the captain, but he didn't forget Slocum, whom he had to thank for automatic locks in the morgue.

"Jordan?" he called softly.

But there was no answer. He rested his forehead against the door and stayed like that for good twenty minutes – Jordan, curled up into a ball next to her desk, was counting – before turning away.

* * *

As soon as he reached the precinct, Woody strode to his desk and dove into paperwork. It had turned out that Nigel wasn't the only one who was late with a report. Not wanting to risk another angry call – or a visit, which would be even worse – from the captain, he got down to work. But although he was doing his best, it was difficult to focus. His was a thousand miles away from the last week's homicide-turned-out-suicide. Glancing at his watch, he groaned inwardly – almost half an hour had passed, and he had written two and a half sentences. He ran his hands through his hair and stood up, deciding he might as well go fetch a coffee.

On his way to the coffee machine, he spotted Matt Seely talking to a tall blonde. He overheard her asking about Detective Peters and shuddered. He was hoping that the young woman wasn't looking for the precinct Special Victims detective because of a case.

He heard Seely explain to her that she'd have to wait. "Detective Peters is not here at the moment." The red-haired detective motioned towards a row of chairs lined up against the wall. "If you would just-"

At that moment, a uniform was passing by them, having a difficult time restraining a three-hundred-pound heavy and six-foot tall biker wearing a greasy "Motorhead" T-shirt. Trying to wriggle out of the officer's grasp, the giant collided with Seely's back. The detective, in return, bumped into the woman he was talking to.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed so loudly that all the buzz in the corridor stopped. "Don't you touch me!"

Woody didn't see Matt's face become redder than his hair or hear his voice turn uncharacteristically apologetic. His mind was in a whirl. 'No, that's not possible… That's not possible.' He gasped loudly, attracting a few looks which he failed to notice. 'That's not possible,' he repeated to himself. Yet, Jordan's voice came loud and clear to him. _You didn't force me into anything._ This time he caught the hint of an emphasis. 'But someone else _did_?' he wondered in horror.


	8. Confessions and a Surprise

**Disclaimer****:** I do not own _Crossing_ _Jordan_.

**Note****:** I'm getting better - it took me only eleven days to update, yay! (And this chapter is... hmmm... kind of long.)

**Mexwojo**, **BugFan4Ever** and **CLD**, thanks so much for your reviews. :)

* * *

"Get out of my house!" Meghan Reilly sprang from her black Barcelona chair. She was trembling with anger.

Woody sighed, glancing down at the dark herringbone-patterned parquet, before he stood up from his faux leather chair. He was glad to do that – that piece of furniture may seem pretty comfy, but his back was already starting to hurt. Everything in the room seemed overly angular and kind of sterile to him. Well, the glass-and-wood coffee table was nice…

Mrs. Reilly's voice brought him back to reality.

"Now!" The woman motioned towards the hall.

"Mrs. Reilly, calm down, please. I was merely stating the facts."

Shaking her head, she ran a hand through her frizzy auburn hair. "How can you even think that Jake would do such a thing? He'd never kill himself!"

"The other option is that somebody else hired the killer," retorted the detective, disregarding her accusing stare.

She flashed him a bitter little smile. "And by 'somebody' you mean _me_." A brief silence ensued. "Detective, I loved my husband." She bit her lip. "I _love_ my husband. And the only thing that stops me from falling to pieces is that I know I have to take care of our kids, of _his_ kids. I don't want the damn money. If he really did it because of that money, I'll give it to a charity, I'll throw it out the window, I'll burn it…" She was looking at him intently, and he saw her green eyes sparkle with tears. "Maybe that will convince you."

* * *

Jordan tossed a sheet over the old man who'd gotten caught in crossfire, and Nigel furrowed his brow. She'd usually sew the victim up herself and not leave that part of the job to one of the assistants.

She noticed the look in his eyes, and hurried to speak before he could ask any inconvenient question. "Nigel, can you check these for me, please?"

"Sure thing, luv." He took the Petri dish containing two bullets from her. "That _is_ my job, you know?" He smiled. "And you're not getting it, no matter how hard you try. So you'd better stop trying and get some sleep."

His attempt to hide his concern with a lame joke wasn't greatly appreciated.

"Technically, it's the BPD Crime Lab's job. And I sleep just fine, thank you," Jordan barked at him. For the first time she wished she was still working for Bernie, surrounded by his minions. Back in L.A. nobody gave a shit about how she felt, which obviously did have some advantages. "Now, if you're not going to check them, I will." She reached for the dish.

Nigel shielded it with his hand. "I'll test them, Jordan," he said wearily. "I'm just worried about you. We all are."

"Well, no need to be," she told him in her best carefree voice. Not able to stand his gaze any longer, she turned and headed towards the trash can. "Really. I've been staying up late lately. I've rediscovered some old DVD's," she continued in the same manner. "Plus, I shouldn't have taken Lily's advice. That day cream isn't all that wicked awesome. Gives me a grayish hue, don't cha think?" She turned in his direction, giving him what she hoped to seem like a genuine smile. "Well, I guess human foreskin isn't for everyone, huh?" she concluded, throwing her latex gloves into the can.

Although she hadn't managed to fool him with her flippancy, Nigel couldn't but grin. He still had trouble believing that their resident grief counselor would rub _that_ into her face every morning. "No, I guess it's not." When Jordan just kept on fumbling with her wristwatch for some time, he added, "Okay then, we'll have the results in no time."

"Thanks, Nige," she said quietly, more grateful that he wasn't pushy than for the tests he was going to do.

* * *

When the criminologist left Autopsy Two, she pressed her fingertips to her temples and started rubbing in small circles. She felt as though a giant sledgehammer was at work inside her head. She closed her eyes, but opened them almost instantly, shaking her head slightly. No, she couldn't sleep; she couldn't see all those things again, she _couldn't_…

"Hey," came a voice from the doorway, and she tensed.

Her greeting was preceded by an internal curse. He was the last person she could deal with when she felt like this.

"Emy," Woody jerked his thumb in the general direction of the door, "told me Dr. Macy was here. I spoke with him earlier, and he said I could stop by at four." He checked his watch. "He should be doing the autopsy on my shooting vic."

"Yeah, well, he's called it a day," she explained. "Maggie called. Something to do with Abby." A small sigh escaped her. Whatever it was that Chief M.E.'s only daughter had done this time, it was enough to make him flush that peculiar shade of pink before storming off. "I already did the autopsy. Had nothing to do and the room was free…" She focused on the door. "I'll fax you the preliminary report till the end of the day."

Woody noticed on what she was concentrating. He had no intention of leaving, and he positioned himself so that she wasn't able to slide past him. "You think that's a good idea?"

"What?"

"Framus told me you were the responding M.E. on her latest case, Jordan." She was standing in front of him now, and he winced inwardly upon a closer look of her face. It had some strange greenish-grayish color. Except for the black half-circles under her red eyes, that was. "That means you did a pick-up at four a.m. this morning. And you're still working. And you clearly have no intention of leaving for at least a few hours."

"And your point is?"

Her snappiness didn't touch him. "Don't you think it's a bit too much, Jordan?" he asked her softly.

"Don't be ridiculous." She rolled her eyes. "This is hardly the first time I've pulled a double."

He went on in the same tone. "Go home, Jordan. Get some rest. You-"

"Don't tell me what to do," she cut him off. She had to get out of there, immediately. She squeezed her eyes shut to get rid of the colorful specks dancing in front of her eyes, blurring her vision. "I-" She felt her legs give way. She reached for an anchor, but grabbed air.

"Jordan!" He caught her by the arms as she was falling. "Jordan!" The rising panic threatened to overwhelm him. "You okay?" he asked, exhaling in relief when her eyes opened.

She nodded slightly. It was all she could do. Her tongue was dry, and her head heavy as lead.

"Jordan!" He held her, and she let him do it. Possible consequences not once entered his mind. Her mind was still in a haze – words, blood, chemicals and spinning white walls all blending into one, creating a hell-like fusion. Her instinct was telling her not to move; another movement would mean another fall.

He couldn't keep quiet about her unhealthy look any more. "How long has it been since you slept?" he inquired, not really expecting an answer. Realizing he was probably gripping her too tight, he put an arm around her waist to shift her into a more comfortable position. His fingers brushed her ribs, and he was able to _feel_ them through her clothes. Sure, Jordan had had her skinny phases, but this was… "How long has it been since you ate?"

By that time, the specks had disappeared and she'd regained her balance. She fidgeted a little, and he let her go, sighing. Then he took her by the hand and opened the door. "C'mon."

She didn't move. "Excuse me?"

"No excuses. You're going to eat. Immediately. I'm-" He stopped mid-sentence, reconsidering his plan to order in. Though he wanted them to talk in private, he didn't think she'd like to stay alone with him in a confined space. "We're going to _Gianpaolo's_," he announced, walking through the door.

For once, she followed meekly. The little Italian restaurant round the corner sounded like a good idea right now. As far as she remembered, she _had_ eaten a stale muffin yesterday morning.

"Woody, wait!" she started as they approached the locker rooms. "Wait!"

But he was a man on a mission. "You need to eat, Jordan."

She genuinely smiled for the first time in some time. "I also need to change." She stopped, and he turned to face her. "I don't think they'd like it if I sat there in bloody scrubs. I reckon that might scare some customers off," she explained.

"Oh," he breathed, realization filling his features. "Sure."

She stepped into the women's locker room, and he followed. A half-smile on her lips, she turned.

"Woody?" The smile widened when his eyebrows shot up. "I don't need help changing."

Looking down and mumbling something incomprehensible, he left the room, lightening up when he heard her chuckle behind his back.

* * *

"So, how's the Reilly case going?" Jordan asked when they were sitting at a back table in the rustique little Italian place.

"I'm at the dead end." Woody tapped his fingers on the cotton tablecloth with little red-and-white squares. "The worst thing is that I know what happened, but I can't find the creep. His fingerprint didn't match with anything."

"What about the wife?" Jordan asked after helping herself to her garden salad. "Nige tells me you still aren't sure about her role in everything."

"I paid her a visit yesterday morning," he said. "Let's just say I'm sure now. You were right. She didn't have anything to do with it," he confessed. "I was wrong about a lot of things lately." He hesitated a little before he went on, "Jordan, I-"

"Woody…" she interrupted, putting her fork down. "Don't start, please. I've told you a million times everything's okay."

"I know. But it's not okay. And I don't think only about… that _situation_ in your office. I think about everything that's happened since I was shot. I've been a jerk." He talked fast, anticipating another interruption. "About everything."

"What do you want, Woody?" Tiredness was dripping from her voice.

"I want us to talk."

She attempted to counter his seriousness with a smile. "I was under the impression we're talking right now."

"You know what I mean, Jordan," he said almost sheepishly.

"Listen, Woody…" She took a deep breath. "I think that all's been said when it comes to you and me. I said some stupid things, and I'm sorry they upset you."

His was in a spin. What _she_ was sorry for? Before he was able to speak, she continued.

"There you go: I'm sorry, you're sorry. I forgive you, you forgive me. All's fine and dandy." She stood up. "Gotta go now."

"Jordan, please…" He stood up too. "What I said at the hospital-"

She was shaking her head as she said, "I don't wanna talk about it." Her voice was gruff.

He insisted, "I was messed up, but I've been dealing with my problems, and-"

"I get it. This is part of your therapy. Fine. Okay. Well." She waved her hand around while she spoke, ignoring the funny looks of the family sitting at the table next to theirs – mom, dad and a little dark-haired girl gripping a chocolate-brown teddy bear. "I already told you – you've been forgiven. Really gotta go now."

"Just another minute, Jordan. Please," he pleaded. His words intermingled with the little girl's whiny: "Make Teddy sing, daddy! Make him sing!"

"The hospital, Riggs, the crime scene, your office…" Woody raised his voice a notch in order to be heard. "I know I hurt you, Jordan. And I know that words don't mean much. But I want you to know I'm your friend. I want to be your friend. You can trust me. You can tell me anything." 'God, why does everything sound so lame?' "I care about you so much, Jordan. You mean so much to me…" From the look in her eyes he could tell that she wasn't getting it or maybe she didn't want to get it. He was becoming desperate, searching for the right words, which he simply couldn't find. She was going to walk away any moment. What the hell, he'd say it, even if it scared her. It had been left unsaid much longer than it should have. "I love you, Jordan."

The words were muffled by the chocolate-brown teddy bear's deafening performance of "Happy Birthday" and its little owner's uncontrollable giggles. He wasn't even sure whether she'd heard him.

"I can't do this," she muttered, striding towards the exit.

* * *

She didn't go back to the morgue. She caught a cab home. As soon as she slammed the door behind her, she hurried to the bedroom. She threw herself on the bed, fully dressed, and pulled the comforter over her head. Curled into a ball, she willed herself to sleep but rest wasn't forthcoming.

_I love you, Jordan._

It played in her head again and again. She felt salty tears on her lips and dried her eyes with her knuckles. She was right – he did love her. He was sincere; she didn't doubt it for a moment. But it was too late. He didn't know her secret. If he did… Well, there were two options. He'd run for the hills. Or he'd stay. And he would only stay out of pity. He'd be afraid of hurting her, so he'd stay. Would he? Why would he stay? And hadn't he hurt her before? He'd get bored of her real soon, she couldn't think about as much as a kiss without shuddering. But he _loved_ her. He _did_. Yeah, but…

Whatever. It _was_ too late.

* * *

"I want to kill him." Woody was pacing the width of Dr. Stiles's office. "I'm going to kill him," he said matter-of-factly.

"You think that's the solution?" the doctor asked him in a conversational tone.

"I know that won't erase what happened. But I'll feel hell lotta better," he responded, clenching his hands into fists.

"Really?" Stiles's voice now had a hint of doubt.

"Yes." Woody said without thinking. "No. I don't know," he eventually conceded. "I can't just sit around and do nothing."

"Wouldn't offering support be somewhat more constructive?"

The younger man gave his best sarcastic voice a shot. "So, I'm supposed to tell her: 'Hey, Jordan-'" He made a mental note to kill himself. "Crap!"

"I did have my doubts." Stiles tried to soothe him. "Everybody at the morgue knows everything about everybody else there, you know." And that was truth, especially with that lanky British gossipmonger around. The "friendship" between this detective and a certain M.E. was an open secret.

When the detective remained mute for a time, the doctor spoke again. "If you're so sure that your course of action is right, why are you here, then? And not using that guy like a punching bag?"

Woody countered with a question. "What do you think?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'm so damn good at what I do that you've seen the light." Stiles grinned.

"Yeah, right." Woody rolled his eyes. "I don't have a freaking idea who the creep might be. I checked all records from the previous month and nothing."

"Maybe it happened earlier," suggested the state psychiatrist.

"No." The detective rubbed the back of his neck. "It happened recently. She's too… _jumpy_, for lack of a better word." His pace quickened. "But I can't believe that she didn't report it. Of all the women…"

"There can be many reasons-"

He didn't even wait for Stiles to finish. "Well, none of them is right," he cut in, coming to a halt.

"I didn't tell it was," Stiles retorted. After a moment of silence, he resumed, "So, do you see a pattern here? Whenever things get out of control, you get angry."

Woody tensed. "And you don't? You just shrug and say, 'Oh, what the hell, that's the way life is.'?"

"Anger is natural," the doctor responded. "But one must learn how to keep it in check."

The detective ran a hand through his already messy hair. "Why?"

"Do you feel good after your fits?" inquired the doctor. "Or you come to me and tell me how you hate yourself because you've hurt somebody you care for?" When the other man's face fell, he added, "Letting it all out isn't healthy, no matter what they tell you."

"I know," Woody admitted reluctantly.

Stiles leaned forward. "So why do you keep doing it?"

"I'm trying not to. I'm trying real hard." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "But it's like every little thing makes me mad."

"Oh, I'd say it's every other little thing now." The doctor flashed him a smile.

"I _am_ trying."

"I'd say you do." Stiles nodded. "So, you still have nightmares?"

"I didn't have one last night or the night before."

"Good."

"Actually, I had a dream about Dad the other night. It was really more like a memory," Woody started explaining. "He, Cal and I were ice fishing. We did that sometimes when I was a kid. Those were my favorite days. I'd ask Dad, 'Can we stay and here?' At the lake, Dad was… a dad. He laughed, he really talked with us, he really listened… Cal'd sometimes ask about Mom, and Dad would actually respond. As soon as we'd get home, he'd go to work. He was always working. And when he _was_ at home, he'd open a beer, listen to the same six _Kinks_ songs or watch a game, and then go to sleep. At home, he never spoke about Mom. When Cal got older, he'd ask questions, and then they would fight. By the time Cal was a teenager, they'd almost stop communicating altogether. I was trying to smooth things out, but nothing really worked. Cal started to hang out with all the wrong people. He'd come home buzzed more often than not. Not that Dad would notice," he shrugged, "he was always at work. And he always looked so tired that I just couldn't tell him about Calvin. I thought I could handle my brother. I guess I was wrong."

"It isn't-"

"Yeah," Woody interrupted, "I know it isn't my fault that Cal's turned out the way he has." He sighed. He should really call his brother and see what was going on with him. "But it isn't Dad's fault, either. I'm not saying he was a good father. But I… When Mom died… He couldn't cope." He frowned. "I'm not saying that he shouldn't have tried harder. I'm just saying that I'm not angry at him, I feel sorry for him." He looked up at Stiles, expecting his reaction.

The doctor nodded. "What about his death?" he inquired. "Are you still angry at him because of how he died?"

"I was angry, and I felt betrayed," Woody confessed. "But now… I'm still angry with that punk. I guess that will never change… But Dad… How can I be mad at him when I've made the same mistake?" His lips twisted in an imitation of a smile. "We all make mistakes, huh?"

"Even I do," Stiles said cheerfully. "Rarely, of course."

The other man sighed. "I just want to stop making the same mistake over and over again. I wanna stop lashing out on people."

"Feeling anger is normal after traumatic events," said Stiles, this time in his most professional voice. "I'll recommend you an anger management class. A friend of mine teaches it. He's an expert in the field." He reached for the top-right drawer of his desk. "You can come chat with me when you feel like it. Once a week or month if you'd like. But I think you'll be fine as long as you remember that no man can save everybody and that not every bad thing that happens to somebody you care about is your fault." He handed Woody a calling card. "And as long as you keep your temper under control."

It was the detective's turn to grin. "So I'm not a complete wacko?"

"I'd say you're not." Stiles smiled back. "But even I make mistakes, remember?"

* * *

Jordan pulled her cell phone from her purse, muttering another curse targeted at her forgetfulness. Not having a watch on her was deeply unsettling. She hated it when she didn't know what time it was. A glance at the cell established that it was only nine. That meant she had been scribbling the report for half an hour only.

"Knock-knock!" A singsong voice from the doorway startled her.

"Howard! What are you doing here?"

Stiles's smile widened at the annoyance she wasn't trying to hide. "You _did_ always have nice manners."

"You don't make social calls. So, who was it?" she got straight to the point. "Who called you this time, Howie?"

He arched an eyebrow. "Why would anybody call me?"

'Yeah, right. Nobody played Mother Theresa this time. Nobody whispered secretively, _Howard, Jordan's gone cuckoo again. Come immediately!_' She made a pitiful attempt at a sincere smile. "If this _is_ a social call, I'm flattered but I'm sorry, Howard – I've got work to do."

He wasn't giving up so easily. "If you insist, your yearly evaluation is due these days."

She gaped. That was a blatant lie. "No, it's not," she claimed. "It's not."

"Well, technically, it's due next month," he admitted. "But I'll be dabbling in the Pacific then, so we might as well get it over with, huh?" he finished merrily.

"Or not," she deadpanned. "We can do it when you get back, Howard. I'm kind of busy."

His face became serious, just like his voice. "With what, Jordan? Self-destruction again?"

"Look, I don't wanna be rude, but I don't have time to listen to that right now," he explained him in a firm voice. "These reports won't write themselves, you know?" She pointed at the stack of manila folders on her left. "And I'm perfectly fine, thanks for asking."

"You know you can't go on like that, Jordan. You're not sleeping," he chastised her. "Knowing you, probably not eating, either. Your practically don't have nails." She followed his gaze to the stubs, wondering when _that_ had happened. "If you don't feel comfortable talking to me," continued Howard, "I can recommend you-"

"What d'ya want, Howard?" Her patience was pretty limited, even more so these days. She stood up from her office chair.

"I want to help you," he said earnestly.

"Well, you know what they say – you can't always get what you want," she retorted, breezing past him out of the office.

* * *

Although she was over ninety-nine percent sure Howard wouldn't follow her, Jordan glanced over her shoulder before seeking refuge in Trace. She was relieved when she saw that the only people there were Bug and Nigel. They were hovering over a body.

"Hey, guys, got anything interesting?" she asked in what she hoped to be her ordinary voice.

"Only _Phormia Regina_." Bug looked up, his goggles in place.

Jordan approached to get a better look of the pretty gross thingy the entomologist was holding with pincers. "You know, Bug, that even sounds vaguely familiar, but I'd appreciate it if you used English."

"Black blow fly," he answered crankily. One would think people would memorize the name – the insect had been present in dozens of cases last year only.

The English name didn't mean much more to Jordan than the Latin one. "And the guy is?" she inquired.

This time, Nigel replied. "We have no idea. No ID on him. Found this morning hanging from a branch in the Boston Common. Suicide, most probably."

Bug continued from there. "Rigor's passed, so he's been dead for more than thirty-six hours. By the larval stage in which these are, I'd say he's not been dead for more than two or three days. I'm going to put them into the environmental chamber to get more accurate results." He slipped through the door, carrying his precious specimen.

Nigel occupied his usual seat and started typing. "I'll check the fingerprints in the meantime." He glanced towards Jordan. "Hopefully, we'll have more luck than we did with Woody's hitman."

"Yeah, I heard about that," she said, sitting on the edge of Nige's desk. "And to think I thought my landlord would eventually track me down using my SSN. Ah, all that money could have been spent in a wiser way…"

"Well, to find someone using their SSN, you need to know their SSN, luv," Nigel pointed out.

She frowned. "What do you mean you don't know his SSN? If it's not on the lease agreement, it has to be on his checking account application. I mean, Mrs. Reilly's tenant was paying the rent to her, right? I guess she'd be a bit suspicious if he was paying cash for an apartment in _that_ building."

"Since Reilly probably wrote the agreement himself, I'd say it's understandable why his hitman's social security number isn't on it," he clarified. "And, apparently, you don't have to give your SSN to a bank."

"You don't?" She wasn't convinced yet. "What about the Patriot Act?"

"It's their policy to ask for your number, but you can – more or less – prove that it's illegal to demand it in order to open you an account." He turned away from the keyboard, having finally started the application. "If you know a few things about law, that is."

The computer beeped. Nigel's eyes widened. Jordan jumped from where she'd been sitting and came to stand behind him.

"How did you get a match so fast?" she asked.

"It matched a print from our database."

He clicked on the case number. In a fraction of a second, a name appeared in front of them. John Doe's print was exactly the same as the one found at the crime scene of the murder of Reilly, Jacob E.


	9. The Truth

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Crossing Jordan_.

**Note: **I'm really sorry I haven't been updating regularly. The story is almost finished now, and I need your opinion on something (so I'll be spoilerish) - the last chapter (Chapter Ten) was intended to be Jordan-centric and to end with a conversation between Jordan and Woody. Now, this conversation turned out to be a longish one (1,000+ words), so I was thinking to divide the chapter into two (the conversation thus becoming Chapter Eleven). What do you think? Would you like to read their conversation as a separate chapter? You don't have to leave a review to tell me (though reviews are always welcome), you'll find a nice little poll at my profile. :) The voting ends tomorrow at midnight PST (which this site uses). I'll post Chapter Ten then, and Chapter Eleven - if there is one - the next morning (after I proofread it again :)).

**lbcjfan**, **BugFan4Ever**, **KJ22**, **Mexwojo** and **luckygirl13**, thank you very much for your reviews of Chapter Eight. :)

**Eleve Osirian** (**xKiagax**), I really appreciate your review of Chapter Seven. :)

* * *

"You-" started Nigel, but then reconsidered his words. "I'll tell Woody."

Jordan nodded, and then both of them took a sudden interest in the floor. The criminologist blessed inwardly the sound of the swinging door.

"Hey, Buggles, you'll never-" he began only to cut himself off when it turned out that the person entering Trace wasn't Bug, but a brunette in her mid-thirties.

Jordan was the first to react.

"I'm sorry, madam, but you can't go in here," she told her, but the woman didn't seem to take notice of her words as she proceeded onwards, whispering something inaudible.

The M.E. stepped forward and, gently but firmly, took the woman by the upper arm.

"I'm sorry, madam," she repeated, "but this is staff-only area."

"Please come with me," she added, taking a small step towards the door.

The woman, however, stayed in place, just like the unreadable expression in her eyes. She started to talk more loudly, though.

"No, I've already been everywhere else. I have the right to know," she insisted. "You have to tell me."

"Tell you what?" intervened Nigel, finally getting up from his computer chair.

The woman pulled a photograph from her purse and held it in front of Jordan.

"Do you recognize him?" she asked, not even a hint of urgency in her voice. She was completely tranquil. Then, seeing the look Jordan exchanged with Nigel, she asked, motioning to the slab with her head. "Is _that_ him?"

She moved forward, as though to approach the lifeless body lying on the metal table, but Jordan detained her.

"I am very sorry for your loss," she said, "but you can't go any farther. You'll contaminate the evidence."

The woman shook her head, as if Jordan had no idea what she was talking about.

"You don't need evidence," she said. "I'll tell you what happened to him. He killed himself four days ago."

* * *

"My niece, his only child, Kathy..." Audrey Robinson made a pause to pull another photo from her purse and put it in front of Jordan. The two women were now sitting in the conference room, where the M.E. had brought Ms. Robinson after a quick "I'll tell Woody, later." murmured to Nigel. She wanted to talk with this strange-behaving woman in private first.

"She died," continued Audrey, "in Mass General four days ago."

"I'm sorry," Jordan said and then cast another look at the skinny blonde smiling contagiously right into the camera.

"Ovarian cancer. She was twenty-two. Twenty-one when got diagnosed nine months ago. At first we couldn't believe it. She was so young." She paused again, this time to wipe away a tear that had escaped her. "We started to believe it was real when her doctor told us that nothing was working. He then suggested stem cell therapy. But the insurance company wouldn't cover it. Of course, we couldn't afford it," she said bitterly. "I work in a small bookstore, Janie - Bobby's wife - left her job when Kathy got sick, she was spending all her time with her, and Bobby is-" she bit her lip, "Bobby was a construction worker. We knew that we would have to beg. And we did. We were sending letters to charities, companies - big and small, rich people. A few Kathy's friends - she played the cello, you know," a proud smile lit her face up for less than a moment, "they gave a couple of recitals too. Even the hospital agreed to help us. But nothing was enough." She shook her head and added, almost inaudibly, "It's so unfair."

Jordan, who was trying to keep tears in check, just nodded.

"Then," Audrey went on her story, "some three months ago, Bobby came home smiling. That was the first time I saw him like that since Kathy had been diagnosed. He told me he'd found the money for the therapy. I asked him where, but he wouldn't tell. We never spoke about it since. I was afraid he would answer, I guess. I figured he'd robbed a bank or something."

'If only,' thought Jordan.

"Anyway, this new therapy wasn't really working either. The cancer was too advanced, or that was the doctor's explanation. And then..." Her voice trailed off and she put her hand to her mouth as though to smother a cry.

"Four days ago she died," she said after a while. "In her sleep. She looked so serene. An angel." She dried her tears before she continued. "I'll never forget the look on Bobby's face when he found out. It was terrible... Like a mask. And he acted like a robot. It must have been the shock." She almost timidly looked at the M.E., seeking support for her explanation.

Again, Jordan just nodded.

"I was afraid for him. His heart isn't... wasn't in a good shape. I was afraid for him, so we went to say our goodbyes together. He just stood there, beside her, and then he kissed her hair and told me he'd wait for me outside."

"I never saw him again," she added and then burst into tears.

Jordan hugged her, searching for the right words to tell this woman whose story was another challenge for her black-and-white view of the world. Couldn't anything be simple these days?

* * *

Woody was sitting at his desk; a file was spread in front of him, a pencil was in his hand, and his mind was cosmic years away from anything around him. He usually managed to use his work as a means of getting away from his thoughts, but not today. Today he couldn't get away from the truth. And the truth was that he was an ass. What in the world had made him say _that_ to Jordan? Had he completely lost his mind? He sighed. The truth was that he was always out of his mind when it came to Jordan. When it came to her, he'd always forget to look before he leaped. Today obviously was no exception. It wasn't that he regretted telling her. He regretted the time he'd chosen to do it.

Sighing again, he put the pencil to paper for the tenth time, at least. The report wasn't going to write itself, and he already had the captain riding his ass because of the freaking Reilly case.

After the third word, he heard his name being called. When he looked up, he discovered, much to his dismay, that it was Seely who'd called him.

"There's a lady who wants to talk to you, Hoyt," the redhead detective grinned at him. "In private," he added significantly. "I told her to wait in front of the box."

His curiosity stirred, Woody got up and strode to the interrogation room, mumbling a thank you to Seely as he walked.

His eyebrows rose when he saw who it was that was waiting for him.

"Mrs. Reilly."

"Good evening, detective," she said in reply, her voice and countenance friendlier than usual. "I have something important to tell you." She looked around discreetly. "In private, please."

"Sure." He nodded, showing her into the interrogation room.

When they were seated, Meghan Reilly put a piece of paper folded in four on the table and gently pushed it towards him.

"I owe you an apology, detective Hoyt," she said as he was unfolding the paper. "I found this in the mail this afternoon."

* * *

Jordan breezed into the bullpen and then stopped in her tracks when she found Woody's table empty. The officer at the reception had told her he was still there.

"Hey, Cavanaugh," a voice startled her.

She turned around to find Matt Seely's toothy grin less than a foot away from her.

"Looking for Hoyt?"

Not having the time for Seely's unwitty remarks, she went straight to the point. "You know where he is?"

The detective flashed a lopsided smile. "What I do know is that a hot blonde just came searching for him too. She wanted them to talk in private."

An idea crossed Jordan's mind. "Was she tall? With curly hair?"

Seely nodded. "You know her?"

"You know how much I enjoy chit-chatting with you, Seely, but do you mind telling me where they are now? I really have to talk to Woody."

Something in her voice made him swallow a comment he considered extremely funny, so he said only, "I think they're in the box."

She was half way to the room adjacent to it when she heard him almost yelling after her, "Oh, be my guest, Cavanaugh! Feel free to enter all the premises of the Boston Police Department at will."

Having gotten that off his chest, he headed to his desk to finish his paperwork, but suddenly he got a better idea. "I'm so not missing this," he said sottovoce before he joined Jordan.

* * *

She didn't even acknowledge his presence. Her eyes were glued to the sight at the other side of the glass.

"As you can see," said Mrs. Reilly, wringing her hands together, "you were right. He did stage everything."

Woody looked solemn. "We still can't be sure if this letter is authentic, Mrs. Reilly. I'll send it to the lab to compare the prints with those we found on your lease agreement with Mr. Jackson. It might be a Confessing Sam."

"You don't believe that, detective." She shook her head. "Who could know all these details? Even I didn't know them."

They were quiet for a moment, and then she said, "You think you know somebody, but you don't know them at all. How could he ever do such a thing?" Her voice suddenly sounded very small.

"What your husband did is..." His voice trailed off as he was struggling to find the right word.

"It's horrible," Meghan Reilly helped him, tears welling up in her eyes. "What he did doesn't have a name. He used the poor man whose only daughter was dying t-to..." She couldn't bring herself to finish.

"Yes, you're right, Mrs. Reilly," Woody made himself say, "but he wanted all the best for you and your kids."

He didn't sound convincing enough to himself, let alone to her. She smiled a little, bitterness filling her eyes. "That's nice of you to say, detective Hoyt, but you and I both know that the road to hell is paved with good intentions."

They sat in silence for a while.

"The best he could do for me and for our children," resumed Meghan, "was to take responsibility for his losses. My daughters would relatively easy come to terms with living without a big apartment, a country house, a grand piano and all those things. But, what do you think, how long will it take them to come to terms with _this_? How long will it take me?"

She stood, and so did Woody.

"Just promise me one thing, detective. Don't let Mr. Robinson's name appear in the papers, please."

"I'll do my best not to let the press find out any of this," he assured her.

Goodbyes were exchanged, and Woody was left in front of the Interrogation Room No. 2 with a pounding headache. Jordan joined him silently, but Seely wasn't that considerate.

"What was that?" as sensitive as always, he broke the silence. "Was that that lawyer's wife?"

"The conversation was meant to be private, Seely," Woody reminded him wearily, too worn out to even snap at his co-worker.

Matt shrugged in his usual manner. "It's Cavanaugh's fault."

Woody's attention then turned to Jordan.

"I tried calling you," she explained, "but you were out of reach, so I had to come. And when Seely told me you were talking to a tall, curly blonde, I assumed it was Meghan Reilly. She brought a letter with Bob Robinson's confession?"

Woody's eyes narrowed a bit in suspicion. "How do you know his first name?"

"I'll explain," she said impatiently, "just first tell me."

"Yes," he admitted, though reluctantly. "Robinson sent it to her before he killed himself. She hadn't been reading mail since her husband's funeral, so she finally found it this afternoon. He said that Reilly had paid him to kill him, and he'd accepted because his daughter was dying and he needed the money for the therapy. He begged her for forgiveness. He couldn't live with the guilt, he said, so the day on which she'd receive his letter would be either the day of his daughter's recovery or the day of her death."

He stopped and looked at Jordan, half-hopeful.

She shook her head slightly. "Kathy Robinson died in Mass General four days ago. Her aunt came to the morgue looking for Bob a couple of hours ago. She told me about Kathy."

"Did she...?"

She understood the unspoken part of the question. "No, she didn't know that it was her brother who killed Jacob Reilly." She locked her eyes to his. "And I think it can stay that way," she half-asked.

Both detectives nodded.


	10. In the Park

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Crossing Jordan_.

**Note:** Thank you, **Mexwojo** and **faith4000,** for your reviews. :)

I'd also like to thank the only two visitors to my profile who have actually voted. :)

I'm sorry this chapter is a little late, but I fell asleep last night. :) The last one is almost ready and will be up tomorrow.

* * *

_To I., K. and S., three angels who have left this world much too soon._

***

"Go home."

Jordan all but jumped from her office chair, and Garret half-smiled. So absorbing the view at bustling Boston in an atypically warm October afternoon was that she hadn't noticed the Chief M.E. before he spoke.

"Nice day," he observed.

"Yeah," she said unenthusiastically, shooting a nasty look at the two days' worth of paperwork lying in front of her.

"I mean it, Jordan. You'll finish that tomorrow."

Her eyes widened in an almost child-like way, but narrowed almost instantaneously.

"Half an hour ago you almost chewed Nigel's head off for not finishing that report."

"I like to think of that as friendly advice to him to do his job instead of trying to replace the entire BPD lab," Garret deadpanned. "And you clocked so much overtime last week that it's practically illegal of me to keep you here."

This was a blatant lie, so she opened her mouth to protest but he forestalled her.

"Go home," he repeated in a manner which showed that this time he was not taking no for an answer, and she finally noticed the look in his eyes. It was the one he'd get when he was worried about Abby..._ and_ her. Her heart filled with gratitude. How lucky she was to have him! Even if Max was God knew where, she had a father right beside her.

To her horror, she felt the prickling of tears in her eyes. She quickly grinned widely.

"You know what," she said, getting up and taking her purse, "I _might_ go for a walk."

They smiled at each other in understanding, and Jordan -- pretty uncharacteristically of her -- planted a small kiss on his cheek before breezing past him.

* * *

For hours she was roaming the streets, simply taking pleasure in the sunshine caressing her skin and the lightest breeze playing with her hair and her scarf. The sun was already a burning orange smudge on the horizon when she began to read street signs and look around her. She was hoping to find a Chinese restaurant as her stomach was starting to complain. She didn't find one, but she did find out that she was only two streets away from Boston Common. Her heart started fluttering like mad upon this realization. She drew in a deep breath. Disregarding the alarm bells going off in her head, she marched into the park.

She sat on the first bench and looked around.

'I was only twenty feet away from here that night.'

Oddly enough, this didn't send her to the edge of reason. On the contrary, her pulse steadied. She felt that the time had come. She had been running away from the memory, shunning away from anything that could evoke it and immersing herself in her work. That had to stop. Such a lifestyle was taking too high a toll.

'I want my old life back,' she thought and then almost laughed at the thought. 'Some life it was!'

But she did miss it. She would give anything to wake up and realize that the last ten days had never happened... She smiled a mirthless little smile. She had learned long ago, more than twenty years ago, that things like that didn't happen, no matter how much you wanted them to. In the end you had to face both this fact and those bad memories. And it seemed that this was this end.

Though her palms were rapidly turning into water and her heart was throbbing in her throat, she forced herself to go through the events of that night. Hoping they would help her heal, she didn't stop the tears from falling. She was going through everything again and again until she finally concluded, 'I kicked his ass.'

She made a pretty pitiful attempt at a smug smile. Kicking his ass was the least he had deserved. He was a bastard. Even if she had changed her mind in his very bedroom, he would not have the right to react like that. Period. She should have reported him. Her mouth twisted into an embittered smile. Having tagged along with detectives all these years, she had come across to a number of abuse victims. Almost all of them would at first refuse to report the crime, and she would tell them they had nothing to be ashamed about. She would tell them it hadn't been their fault, and she absolutely believed it. How had she come to believe that that night's event was her fault?

It wasn't her fault. It wasn't. Just like it hadn't been her fault when her place got broken into almost a year ago. She had known it then and she knew it now. No matter what her behavior might have been like, Pete had had no right to treat her in that way. Because of him her last ten days been hell at its finest – she couldn't think about anything else, she couldn't eat, she could sleep but hadn't been feeling the slightest desire to because of the nightmares.

Nightmares... She shuddered. She hated them most fervently. The first ones had started right after her mom's death. After that, whenever they appeared, she knew she was dangerously close to a breakdown. This time was no exception.

"There were a couple of new ones, though," she said quietly to herself. "Like that one with my old boyfriends... Now, that was a good one!"

Against her will, she laughed out loud. Tyler was the last guy in the world who would do such a thing. Well, okay, Ty was the next-to-the-last one, and Woody was the last one.

Woody... What an awful sense of timing that man had! Well, to tell the truth, hers wasn't any better. Maybe they just weren't meant to be. Or maybe they should just try harder. He _had_ said he loved her...

She shrugged these thoughts off. Right now she didn't really have the strength to analyze their relationship. The most important thing now was that she'd become conscious of the fact that she wasn't unworthy of Woody or any other man because of what had happened with Pete. She was at peace with herself. Maybe she couldn't have her old life back, but she could have a new one, a life liberated from the burden of the past. She would never forget, just as she would never forget many other ugly things that had happened to her. But she wouldn't let them rob her off the joy of days and years yet to come, either. Her life was far from over.

She got up from the bench, smiling at the moon. It was late, but she still had the time to make some amends.

* * *

"Jordan!"

"I brought you something." She smiled almost sheepishly, waving a small paper bag. "It can rain a lot on the West Coast in November, ya know, and I wouldn't want you to catch a cold and miss my yearly evaluation."

The little man grinned and moved from the door to let her in.


	11. The Ending Is What You Make of It

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Crossing Jordan_.

**Note: **Thanks, **Mexwojo**! :)

I was planning to put this up yesterday, but... life happens. ;)

* * *

There was a knock and the office door opened even before she said come in.

"Hey." Woody looked a bit apprehensive.

"Hey." She smiled reassuringly.

"I was just wondering if you had something for me about that shooting." He was constantly flipping his phone over as he spoke.

"Not yet, but I'll do the autopsy first thing in the morning."

He nodded. "Thanks."

There was more than a moment of awkward silence before he added, "Well, see you, then."

He headed for the door, and she got up from her chair.

"Woody-" She regretted it as soon as the word had left her mouth. It wasn't that she didn't want to bring the matter up. She did. But not now. Or anytime soon, to tell the complete truth.

It was too late, though. He was already staring at her with that questioning look in his eyes.

"Yes?" he prompted when she remained silent.

She sighed inwardly and began, "I... Well, I wanted to apologize for the other day." Since the puzzlement on his face didn't seem to decrease, she tried to explain a bit better. "At Gianpaolo's... I lost it. I'm sorry. I was just..."

And she lost it again. She turned her head to the window, not knowing what to say nor how much to reveal.

"I know," he almost whispered in a strange tone, and a sudden, irrational fear washed over her. What _exactly_ did he know?

"You do?" she asked in a small voice, having turned around to face him again.

She struggled to analyze the odd mixture of feelings in his eyes and managed to determine the dominant component – sorrow. He did know. And she did not want his pity.

"I reported him the day before yesterday," she said, still in a small voice, to her distress. She was staring at her feet, which was causing her even more distress, but she simply couldn't make herself look up.

"You did the right thing." was everything he could come up with, and he mentally kicked himself for being an ineloquent idiot one more time.

She nodded, not lifting her eyes yet.

"Well," she looked at him at last, "I still have some things to finish before I go home."

But he refused being dismissed like that. God knew when he would get another opportunity to talk to her in private.

"I meant what I said, Jordan."

'Don't. Just don't. Not now,' she prayed.

"I love you."

'Great sense for timing indeed,' she said inwardly, fighting the urge to let out a nervous chuckle. She had the reply ready, though, and could just bet that it would at least buy her some time.

"Why?" she asked.

"Why what?" he countered, looking disoriented. He wasn't sure whether she wanted to know why he was saying it now or why he loved her. The second option seemed almost ridiculous to him. What was there to explain? Naturally, he loved her because she was... Jordan.

"Never mind," she retorted, waving her hand dismissively. "Here's my little theory on that." When he opened his mouth, she held up her arm authoritatively, "It won't take long," she promised. "We're a great team, right? We're fantastic when it comes to my wild-goose chases, aren't we?" She made a little pause to see if her words were sinking in. "That's because I need help, I need someone to save me. And you need someone to save."

"Jordan-" he tried to get a word in.

"No, it's true," she quickly cut him off. "Can't you see that? Neither of us can cope when there's no emergency... Or when the roles are reversed. Remember the hospital?" She gave him a little lopsided smile. "Can't you see what's been happening almost since we met?"

This time he was too taken aback to even try to speak. 'Please enlighten me,' he thought, miffed, wondering how she had managed to come up with complete garbage like that.

She wasn't expecting him to answer anyway, so she continued, her voice dripping with an emotion which to him looked most like sarcasm, "I'm a poor little thing whose mother was cheating on her father, whose mother was killed when she was ten, who has lost her faith in love, in people, in happily ever after." There she stopped to get some air. "And there's your chance to shine," she went on matter-of-factly. "What could a savior do but do his best to bring her a happy ending? Not so much for her, but for himself."

He wasn't miffed any would be too weak a word to describe the state he was in. "You have no idea what you're talking about," he ground through his teeth.

It was her time to protest.

"No, no, no, it's my turn now." This time he held up his hand to silence her. "Nobody can save somebody else. I know that now. Yes, I wanted to save you," he admitted, "I still do, but I know I can't. And do you know why I want to do it? Because I love you. I want to save you because I love you, Jordan. Not the other way round." He took her by the shoulders and shook her lightly. "You hear me? Not the other way round," he said slowly while she took a step backwards. "How the hell could I have known you needed to be saved when I first saw you? Or before I learned the truth about your mother? You were always so self-assured, so confident…"

"A savior's sixth sense for lost little lambs?" she suggested.

He disregarded her wannabe-humorous remark. "And, yes," he said. "I want to save people. That's why I do what I do, that's why I joined the police in the first place. And what about you?" he asked. "You're a medical doctor. What does that say about you and saving people?"

"I'm an M.E.," she pointed out, rolling her eyes. She left the "and-you're-a-homicide-detective" part, though.

"Yes, you are. And you know why. Because you want them to be heard, all those bodies that would otherwise probably just be cut open and stitched up and forgotten if there weren't for you. You want to save them even though they're dead," he said, "So, I'd say your little savior rant was the kettle calling the pot black."

"Maybe," she gave in reluctantly.

"It's all part of being human, Jordan," he resumed eagerly, "We're just two _slightly_ messed-up people, just like everyone else. We want to save others, and we want somebody to save us."

She couldn't help herself. "Howard's been giving you private lessons?" She flashed another lopsided grin.

"Even I know that's a coping mechanism, Jordan," he deadpanned.

She sighed. As much as she hated to admit it, he seemed to have a point.

They stood in silence for quite a time.

"So, what do we do now?" she finally spoke.

"I don't know." He shrugged. "What do you want to do?"

"Be myself again," she responded quietly. "Well, an improved version of myself, maybe. I need to move on. I need to save myself." She looked him in the eye. "I want a happy ending," she confessed.

"The ending is what you make of it, Jordan," he said. The ending will be what we make of it. But maybe we should start from the beginning," he suggested. "Be there for each other while we're trying to be ourselves again."

"Yes," she nodded, "but..."

"What is it?" he prompted softly.

"I…" she tried to explain, but couldn't find the words. That happened a lot these days.

"We knew that before, too," she finally said. "I mean, we knew... how we felt about each other. I know I did. But... time after time we run from each other. We always end up hurting each other. How can we know…" Her voice trailed off.

"We can't," he admitted. "What I do know is that time after time we run back to each other. Just like now. And I believe that the moment has to come when we will stop running and start walking together."

"Fortune-cookie wisdom." She laughed. "But you're right."

"Thank you." He smiled back. "So, I think this moment has come. It's time to start walking towards our happy ending."

"How do we get there?"

"One step at a time," he said confidently. "One step at a time."

She smiled a crooked little smile. "And how 'bout via Gianpaolo's? I'm starving."

He laughed, shaking his head, and she took her jacket and purse. They headed to the little restaurant round the corner, resuming their journey together once more and hoping that this time the winding road would take them to the right place.

* * *

So, this is it! :) I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you all for reading this story _and_ for bearing with my slow updates. Of course, special thanks goes to my wonderful reviewers, whose opinions I greatly appreciate.

Peace & love,

Amelia :)


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